Popular Fiction

My Idea for a Single Player Epic RPG

2008-09-23T14:26:00.000-05:00

I've been working on an idea for a single player epic RPG. I've made a list of the top twenty things I'd like to see in my game. Here they are:

The Must Haves:

1) A huge, full and detailed gameworld that is different every time you play (procedural generation)

2) Freeform, non-linear gameplay. Complete the main quest at your own pace, or ignore it entirely

3) Open skill tree for maximum character customization

4) Materials-based item crafting. If it can drop, it can be crafted

5) Quests are different every time you play (dynamic, scripted procedural quests)

The Wants:

6) Dynamic gameworld that changes based on the player's actions

7) Emergent quests (unscripted quests, see #6)

8) Guilds

9) Crafting mini-game that's short but fun

10) Mutiple main quest endings

11) Potion Crafting

12) Scroll Crafting

13) Pets

14) Allies

15) Diplomacy

16) Mounts and mounted combat

17) Player owned houses and ships

18) Player owned businesses

19) Other 'heroes' that complete quests, sometimes joining you; sometimes fighting you

20) Paperdoll

That's it. I've thought about it for a while and there isn't really anything else I want in a single player RPG.

What about you? What would you want in your dream RPG?

Spoils of War: a fantasy TBS Games Retrospective

2008-07-22T20:59:00.004-05:00

Back in the fall of 1995, a game caught my eye at my local PC store and after being seduced by the (very colourful) back of the box, I had to have it. That game was Heroes of Might and Magic, a game that consumed countless hours of my early twenties, a time when I should have been out either getting laid or getting a career. Instead I was gleefully stomping around the world of Enroth with Kastore and Yog and all the other Heroes, pretending to be bad-ass. Nerd Power!

Around the same time I also discovered Warlords II Deluxe, a game with similar gameplay and setting but very different execution than Heroes. The game maps in Warlords weren't as busy as those in Heroes but there were more cities and more armies and there were ruins. Oh how I loved sending my hero into ruins and hoping madly that he wouldn't die at the hands of some Troll, Spectre or worst of all, Dragon.

Between the Heroes and Warlords series those years were a full, rich oyster of fantasy gaming goodness. Oddly though, both game series had a surprising flaw. The combat was terrible. Searching ruins, collecting loot, and crushing enemies was great, but the actual moments of combat were tremedously boring. Often it seemed to devolve more into a game of luck than real strategy.

Then 1999 happened, and the game Disciples: Sacred Lands came along and resurrected the fun. The combat in Disciples was (and still is) the best comabt in a turn-based strategy game, ever. Instead of the uncontrollable randomness of Warlords or the tedious epic battles of Heroes, Disciples pitted a small squads of single units against each other in a brilliant chess-like mini-game where every choice could lead to death or victory.

I remember wishing that someone would combine my favorite elements of these three game series together. The very idea gives me chills. Imgagine a game with the colourful, loot-filled, map-stomping heroes of Heroes of Might and Magic. Now add the fast production, ruins, allies and cowboy diplomacy of Warlords. Stir in a generous helping of the combat from Disciples and bake until perfect.

I might never leave my house again.
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Previous Post: Ginger Snaps

Ginger Snaps

2007-11-25T11:18:00.002-05:00

Holy cow, An actual post!

In the time since my last post, so much has happened. My uncle Albert Harris passed away from cancer. He was 59. My mother spent five weeks in the hospital with a kidney infection that led to septicemia. They're hopeful about her recovery. My boss who was supposed to leave for Poland, hasn't. She's got a lump in her throat which they'll be doing a biopsy on shortly.

Life has not gone according to plan.

In other news, soon after I shot my video of Frodo, I got some great footage of my friend's bulldog, Ginger. Well I've finally assembled it and am posting it here for your viewing pleasure.

Enjoy!
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Next Post: Spoils of War - a fantasy TBS Games Retrospective

Previous Post: Irony, Thy Name is Silence?

Irony, Thy Name Is Silence?

2007-10-04T16:00:00.000-05:00

Oddly, the less frequently I post, the more visitors I get every week. I have no idea why. Also my page views have skyrocketed. The less I say, the more you read. Bizzarre.

I'm thinking with my new full-time job and my new hobby (see the post What I Really Want To Do Is Direct) I really should change this blog to a "once a week" footing. Daily is out of reach right now.

I'll try to post one humour story a week, most likely on Friday or early Monday morning. More videos will also be coming down the pipe, but they'll be a bonus on top of my weekly humour post.

So, here's what's new...

HOMEMADE VIDEO BLOG ENTRY!

What I Really Want To Do Is Direct
This post will be of a video I shot today. I just got a lovely Panasonic GS80 Mini DV Camcorder and I thought that 'Frodo', my 10-year old english bull terrier would be the perfect first subject. (more...)

Btw, my posting was so erratic in August that I'm going to combine it with September for choosing the next "Post of the Month". It seems kind of silly to vote for "Post of the Month" when the month only has FIVE posts.

We Have a Winner!
"The Worst Smell Ever" has been voted, by you the readers, to be July's Post of the Month. Thanks to those who voted! (more...)

This Just In
"The Most Fascinating Thing I've Heard This Century"

Theoretical physicist and 2057 host Michio Kaku speculates on the future of civilization.

Quote - "The generation now alive, and our grandchildren, are the most important generations ever to walk the surface of the earth."(more...)

Don't miss these classic posts!

My personal favorite post:
Hot Coffee At Twenty Below

Reader's Favorite post for April:
Adventures In Cuba: People Are Funny When They're On Vacation

Reader's Favorite post for May:
The Top Five Fuhringer Family Fishing Trip Disasters

Reader's Favorite Post for June:
Sorry Buddy

The most read "This Just In" post:
Videos of Water Flash Freezing

Thanks! - T. D. Fuhringer

What I Really Want To Do Is Direct

2007-09-29T20:08:00.000-05:00

This post will be of a video I shot today. I just got a lovely Panasonic GS80 Mini DV Camcorder and I thought that 'Frodo', my 10-year old english bull terrier would be the perfect first subject.

I had to put it on YouTube since the blogger.com software keeps failing to upload the video. -sigh- (It looks WAY better in it's original full resolution)

Please enjoy the video and let me know what you think. Thanks!

Previous Post: At Least I Didn't Burn the Place Down

At Least I Didn't Burn the Place Down

2007-09-11T16:51:00.000-05:00

So I survived my first day as Day Manager of Gino's Pizza. The young lady I wrote about earlier now has a healthy new baby boy named Aidan. The other young lady who worked for us also now has a beautiful baby girl named Madeleine. So one of the reasons I got to be Day Manager is because we lost two employees to pregnancy. Yay Babies!

The other reason is because the owner wants to semi-retire. Yay semi-retirement!

As I write this my feet are throbbing. (My old position as driver involved a tremendous amount of sitting.) This new position requires that I be constantly on my feet pretty much the whole day. My poor feet asked my why I am doing this to them and I had to remind them that now, a single weeks' wages will pay off my entire MasterCard balance at once. Yay more pay!

It's going pretty well. I haven't burned the place down, yet. My mistakes have been recoverable. I'm learning all the duties (many of which can't be explained, every day at a pizza shop has very different needs). Outgoing school orders, incoming food shipments, drink shipments, cheques to be written, customers to be served, pizza to be made, toppings to be prepared, dough to be prepared... the list is endless.

Once I'm up to speed the owner will be heading off to Poland for several months, and I'll be alone during the first two-thirds of my shift each day. That will be sweet. It's lot's of work, but with no one around to mess things up on me or give me a hard time, the stress level is very low.

Anyway I'll keep you all posted and I'll try to get back to 'the funny' as soon as possible.

Right now my feet have stolen my sense of humour.

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Previous Story: Privacy? What's That?
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Privacy? What's That?

2007-09-06T11:03:00.000-05:00

During the same trip where my cousins and I almost had a close encounter with a bear, a few other things happened that are worth telling. Bear with me. (Terrible, I know.)

FYI: My grandparents regularly called all the small children in our family "édes" (pronounced 'ay-desh'). It means "sweet" in Hungarian. You need to know this. There will be a quiz later.

My grandparents lived in an old farmhouse made of granite. What can I say? It was Ontario and the builders used the materials they had on hand. For the record a stone house is really cool and comfortable in the summer but in the winter, without a woodstove, you can forget about having running water in your pipes. The foundation and basement were stone too. In fact, the basement, with it's cold dark stone, cobwebs, bad lighting and sump pump hole was pretty much a horror filmmaker's dream. I'd love to go back there with a camera and make one of those low-budget, creepy "There's Something in the Basement" summer slasher flicks.

But that's not the best part. The only way to get to the basement was through the bathroom.

I'll give you a moment to wrap your head around that concept.

To get to the stairs leading to the basement, you had to go through the bathroom and walk past the sink and toilet. It was like having an awesome secret passage in the bathroom. Only it wasn't a secret and it was actually incredibly inconvenient.

It wouldn't have been so bad if my grandparents weren't European peasants with no concept of privacy. I'm not sure there even is a word in Hungarian for 'private'. If there is, no one in my family ever used it. Why would you want to be alone? Are you doing something you're not supposed to? Then why not do it with family around? Why be hiding? So you're naked in the tub? We changed your diaper when you were a baby, we've seen you naked, it's not that exciting. Privacy? What's that?

So one time, my cousin Leilani went to the bathroom. She's sitting on the can with her panties around her ankles (we know this because she told us, we weren't actually IN the room... ok we were right outside snickering and hooting) minding her own business. James and I were watching from the dining room in fascinated horror as Grandpa shuffled over to the bathroom door, opened it, and marched right in without hesitation. He shuffled towards the stairs while Leilani covered herself with her arms and tried desperately to pretend she wasn't there.

As Grandpa got to the top of the stairs to go down, he turned, looked directly at her and with a friendly wave said, "Hi édes!" and then went downstairs.

After several minutes, Leilani came out of the bathroom. Her eyes were as big as dinner plates and her mouth was turned down in the most pathetic frown a little girl has ever worn. She hung her head.

Of course, we howled at her unmercifully.

After that, she always went out of her way to the upstairs bathroom. She figured Grandpa wouldn't go in there as often, since it only led to the attic.

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Previous Story: What Are the Odds?
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What Are the Odds?

2007-09-05T08:16:00.000-05:00

So I was out doing window cleaning for George today. One of the jobs was "Jean's Flower Shop", a lovely easy job. But when I got there they were already open (they'd been open since 7 am... eep!) and there were approximately one billion people looking for a parking spot. Why?

Free roses. By the dozen.

So it was a madhouse. I worked around the people waiting in line for their free flowers the best I could. When the job was done, I was glad to get out of there. Got mom some free Sunflowers though.

So I was trying to get away from the nightmare and ended up going down the side streets to avoid the traffic. I decided to take a random side street to get down to the main street I needed.

Here's where the title of today's post comes in.

What are the odds that a wheelchair accessible school bus would happen to be blocking the one side street I turned down. Or that someone immediately pulled up behind me so I couldn't back out. Or that they were loading the entire Teen Special Olympic Basketball Team onto the school bus. One wheelchair at a time. Slowly and carefully.

Did I mention S L O W L Y ?

So I listened to 14 songs, 113 commercials, and read my owners manual, twice. Then I got out of the car and started a pick up game of Euchre (on the hood of my car) with Jerry, Tim and Tina, fellow travellers also waiting for the school bus to turn off it's lights so we could move. By the time Tim had won all my lunch money, the bus was half loaded.

Seriously. My life is like one of those low budget European art films where a bunch of strangers end up stuck together for some ridiculously impossible reason and end up either killing each other and/or falling in love.

What are the odds?

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Previous Story: That Bear Wants To Talk To You
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That Bear Wants to Talk to You

2007-08-20T12:59:00.000-05:00

I'm back from my relaxing vacation.

But not all my vacations have been relaxing. One time I went with my family up to a "cabins on the lake in the woods" vacation. No TV, no phones. No Internet. No cel phone service. Just south of Algonquin Park. Very peaceful.
The environment was peaceful anyway. My family... not so much.

Here's a picture of the area.

So one evening while the sun was setting we went for a walk down the road. Typical Northern Ontario crushed granite gravel road, bordered on both sides by birch and pine trees. We were on our way back and it was getting very dark. I'd gotten ahead of my family and was fooling around with some wood I'd found in the ditch. Suddenly Dad called out to me.

"Hey Teddy, that bear over there wants to talk to you."

I jumped out of that ditch so fast I'm amazed my socks and underwear didn't fly off.

High comedy. Thanks Dad. Scare me to death in the woods. Yeah, yeah you can stop laughing.

So one time I was staying up at my Grandparents house along with my cousins Leilani and James. They lived way out in the country in an area of red granite and pine forests. Much like the above picture.

We went for a walk down the road. I was the oldest so it was my job to protect the little ones. Right. The first thing I did when we got about half a kilometer down the road was start talking about bears. (Hey, I learned it from my dad.) Leilani and James got really nervous, bottom lips quivering, ready to cry. I was so mean.

We stopped and I said, "What's that noise? Over there in the woods! Shhh!" We all froze. Of course, I was making it up. There was nothing there. Or so I thought.

Suddenly there was a real noise in the woods. A kind of chuffing, snorting belch, very deep and growly. All three of us screamed and started running. We blasted across the field towards the house as fast as our little legs could take us, not looking back, shrieking in terror.

Partway across the field we heard a new noise. It was Grandpa, waving the cowbell to get our attention. He was shouting, "Children! Come back!" This struck us as odd behaviour for Grandpa but we were so scared we didn't care.

Then he tells us that he came looking for us because there was a bear in the woods. Some vacationer had been killed and the police had phoned the residents and warned them to keep kinds and animals inside until they tracked the bear down and killed it.

I don't think my cousins ever forgave me.

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What's the Letter that Look Like a Swiss Chalet?

2007-08-08T00:01:00.000-05:00

Today's title is my Dad's idea of high comedy. I swear. Go ahead, try to figure it out. I dare you.

He was trying to make a joke about not being able to read. Mom and I were making a lot of noise and joking is his clever way of telling us to shut up without actually saying it. So he says, "I can't read anymore. Somebody help me. What's the letter that looks like a Swiss Chalet?"

We stared at him for a minute and then mom made the shape of an 'A' with her arms. "You mean this one?", she replied sarcastically. "That would be an 'A'." I just shook my head.

Of course, Dad's jokes always have to include a reference to food or a bodily function. Otherwise it's just not funny. I have seen my father laugh out loud at the stupidest movies. Pauly Shore movies. Carrot Top movies. But Wallace and Gromit? Not even a smile. He came down while I watched Curse of the Were-Rabbit and ruined the movie for me by sitting there with a dour expression on his face. When it was over he said, "This is not funny. How is this a good movie?"

Sigh.

This is the same guy who watched me play Civilization IV on my PC for several hours then came over and said, "Why are you watching this crap? And by yourself? Why don't you do something real like come watch TV with us. We're watching Discovery Channel!"

Oh Boy. My Favorite. I guess leading the Mayan civilization from its humble beginnings to world dominance over six thousand years isn't going to teach me anything. I should go watch TV instead. I wouldn't want to miss yet another show about primates flinging their feces at each other and how much we can learn from it. What a tragic loss THAT would be.

Sigh.

Family. Can't live with 'em. Can't kill 'em.

And people wonder why watching model trains on a layout going around and around helps calm my nerves.

I need a vacation.

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The Most Fascinating Thing I've Heard This Century

2007-08-07T10:25:00.000-05:00

Theoretical physicist and 2057 host Michio Kaku speculates on the future of civilization.

YouTube Video

Quote - "The generation now alive, and our grandchildren, are the most important generations ever to walk the surface of the earth."

Discuss.

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When Model Railroading Goes Horribly Wrong

2007-08-06T00:01:00.000-05:00

When I was little, I went to the store with my father and grandfather. When we got to the checkout counter I noticed grandpa was carrying a large, flat box. It looked to me like a train set. I said so. He told me, "No, it's a tool." I was pretty sure but I knew better than to argue. So we got home and eventually I was presented with a completed oval train track on a cut wooden frame, complete with an engine, boxcar and caboose. I was in little boy heaven.

Of course, it set in motion a train of events (I know, terrible) that would culminate in my brush with death during an ill-fated Model Railroading experience.

As I grew up, I became more and more interested in Model Railroading. Please note, this is not the same thing as "playing with toy trains", though that is considered by some to be an effective entry point for new aficionados. Check out this terrific Wikipedia entry on Model Railroading a.k.a. "Rail Transport Modelling".

Later on in life I convinced dad to spend some money on some serious Model Railroading equipment. He got me some HO scale track, cork roadbed, an MRC Train Control, and my first two model (as opposed to 'toy') road engines. One was a Burlington Northern GP38-2 and the other was a Canadian National F7. (The links have pictures.)

I was on cloud nine. I remember gleefully nailing cork roadbed to the ping pong table downstairs and running crazy track work everywhere. Seeing my locomotives in action for the first time was spellbinding. Here's a short YouTube Video of Model Trains running. Here's another video showing a model train operating at accurate scale speeds, with a working traffic signal light system! And if you have no life whatsoever, here's yet another video of the longest model railroad train I have ever seen, complete with terrific sound effects.

So I was running my engines down a stretch of track one time, and since I didn't have a camera handy, I used my eyes as a camera. I watched the trains from above, from track level, from in front, from behind, every angle I could think of. Of course, it didn't take me long to exhaust all the safe angles and start coming up with dangerous ones. I suddenly had a vision of watching the train from the track level, as though I were standing on the track. Brilliant!

I contorted my body so that my face was mashed against the track as hard as I could, and I got my head twisted around so I'd have a perfect view of the train as it came towards me. I grabbed the controller and got ready for action.

I'm sure you think you know where this is going, but really you don't. There are two pieces of information you need to know. Then all will be clear.

1) Model Railroad track flows with electricity.

2) I wear metal-rimmed glasses.

With my cheeks jammed against the track, the edge of my glasses ever so gently made contact with both rails, completing the circuit. There was a horrible flash, a very bad smell and I remember trying to scream but instead spitting and shrieking like a epileptic with Tourette's.

My experiment with camera angles was over. I slumped away in disgrace.

But I still love model trains.

P.S. Here's a silly video of Model Train Wrecks that has to be seen to be believed.

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Good Thing They Have Flippers and Not Hands

2007-08-02T22:31:00.000-05:00

Ok, I just had to share this one...

The more we study dolphins, the brighter they turn out to be.

Quote - "At the Institute for Marine Mammal Studies in Mississippi, Kelly the dolphin has built up quite a reputation. All the dolphins at the institute are trained to hold onto any litter that falls into their pools until they see a trainer, when they can trade the litter for fish. In this way, the dolphins help to keep their pools clean.

Kelly has taken this task one step further. When people drop paper into the water she hides it under a rock at the bottom of the pool. The next time a trainer passes, she goes down to the rock and tears off a piece of paper to give to the trainer. After a fish reward, she goes back down, tears off another piece of paper, gets another fish, and so on. This behaviour is interesting because it shows that Kelly has a sense of the future and delays gratification. She has realised that a big piece of paper gets the same reward as a small piece and so delivers only small pieces to keep the extra food coming. She has, in effect, trained the humans."

Ok... that's totally awesome. But wait, it gets better!

Quote - "Her cunning has not stopped there. One day, when a gull flew into her pool, she grabbed it, waited for the trainers and then gave it to them. It was a large bird and so the trainers gave her lots of fish. This seemed to give Kelly a new idea. The next time she was fed, instead of eating the last fish, she took it to the bottom of the pool and hid it under the rock where she had been hiding the paper. When no trainers were present, she brought the fish to the surface and used it to lure the gulls, which she would catch to get even more fish. After mastering this lucrative strategy, she taught her calf, who taught other calves, and so gull-baiting has become a hot game among the dolphins."

Incredible!

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Ice Cream, We're Gonna Get Ice Cream!

2007-08-02T14:31:00.000-05:00

The Ice Cream truck came down our street today.

This particular truck has been around off and on all summer. We know it's the same truck because of the song it plays. It's a slightly discordant music-box type tune, horribly repetitive and unnecessarily cheerful, yet oddly disturbing at the same time. It's like something that would be on the soundtrack if Stephen King were reading aloud from Cinderella.

(Bling-eee-blingetty Blingy-bling Buh-blingy-blingy Bling Bling!)

And keeps going and going and going. It's like "The Song That Never Ends", only less melodic. Or like "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt" performed by Nine Inch Nails.

I know, horrifying.

So it was about 34 degrees Celsius out today, not including the dreaded humidity factor.

"That's right Jennifer, it's a sweltering 34 degrees out there today, but with the humidity, it's going to feel like the surface of the sun! Be sure to wear plenty of sunblock, ha ha ha!"

"Thanks Jim! Now here's Shemvit with a look at traffic!"

So mom and I were sitting quietly reading when suddenly we heard the first plaintive notes of the "Devil's Ice Cream Adventure" song. I had just enough time to look up and say, "Hey! It's the...", when the truck blasted by faster than the F22's from last week's Air Show. Keep in mind this is a side street. With two schools and a park. A posted school zone. This guy put Michael Schumacher to shame.

I'm not completely certain, but I think he really didn't want any customers today. I think he just wanted to finish his route, get home and get out of the heat as fast as possible. I guess I can't blame him though. It was miserable.

Of course, mom pointed out something else. He drives that thing all day. He probably just wants to get away from the horrible music.

(Bling-eee-blingetty Blingy-bling Buh-blingy-blingy Bling Bling!)

Madness!

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Vote For July's Post of the Month

2007-08-01T10:07:00.000-05:00

It's time to vote for July's Post of the Month. Please leave a comment below and let me know which post was your favorite!

Here's a linked list of all July's posts for your convenience.

July 2007

It's Canada Day!
I Should Be Having a Rotten Day But I'm Happy
The Worst Smell Ever
The Great Timbit Incident
Window Cleaning: Great In Summer, Horrible In Winter
Kids Do the Funniest Things
Ignorance Is Bliss: Part One of Many
I Soiled My Armour I Was So Scared
My Secret Identity
Running With Geniuses

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Back to the Main Page
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The Worst Thing I've Ever Tasted

2007-08-01T09:27:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I wrote about being in the "Gifted" Program in school. Let me tell you what that was like and how it led to my most bizarre flavour experience.

In grade seven, Mr. Allen was the head of the program. He was good, but even the best teacher can only focus his attention on so many things at once. Especially when those things are a bunch of hyperactive nerds with wicked imaginations and no sense of propriety. Yeah, we were monsters.

So one time we had to do a really interesting science experiment. The experiment involved sense and observation. Ironically I ended up learning more about human nature and survival than I did about my senses. The way it worked was, one group would eliminate one of their senses. For example the subject would be blindfolded and then given beakers of liquid to smell and identify. Or the subject would be blindfolded and would wear noise cancelling headphones and then have to feel an object to identify it. Very cool.

So in my role as resident victim, I was the first to run The Gauntlet(tm). I was blindfolded and led into the utility closet by my fellow future Dr Mengele's. The first part of the test was the taste test. I was blindfolded and handed beakers of fluid to 'observe'. It was pretty easy. One was orange juice. Another was root beer. Fun stuff. So I got to the end of the taste test and all my compatriots knew it was the end of the taste test because they could read the instruction sheets. I was still BLINDFOLDED and could not read the instructions.

So they hand me a new beaker. It was supposed to be part of the smell test. Nobody bothered to tell me it was the beginning of the smell test. I thought it was still the taste test.

Brilliant.

So I put the beaker to my lips and took a large slurp.

I recognized immediately that it was something very, very bad. It burned and froze and stung and hurt and tasted like fiery death. Somehow my instinct prevented me from swallowing. Good thing too. It was a beaker of Turpentine

Quote from Wikipedia - "Drinking turpentine is extremely dangerous and can be life threatening... Its vapor can burn the skin and eyes, damage the lungs and respiratory system, as well as the central nervous system when inhaled, and cause renal failure when ingested, among other things."

Whee!

Everyone started screaming and I yanked off my blindfold and headed for the fountain to rinse out my mouth. One guy, I'm pretty sure it was Dave Morris said, "You idiot! You were supposed to smell it not taste it." To which I replied, "How was I supposed to know that?"

"It's on the sheet!" he screamed.

"Yoo-hoo!" I waved. "Blindfold!"

Gifted, my arse.

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Running With Geniuses

2007-07-31T10:30:00.000-05:00

I was sitting in the car with my cousin James, at the same Radio Shack parking lot where Dad did his drunken Ukrainian folk dancer routine. We were just sitting there, waiting for somebody at the bank I think. It was a warm day, so we had the windows down and we were watching the people coming and going from Tim Horton's. We were a couple of 'geniuses' with nothing to do but get ourselves into trouble.

For those who haven't met my cousin James, he's one of those people who will say or do anything just to see what kind of reaction he gets.

Anything.

So he's looking out the window when this teenage boy starts running towards us from the far end of the parking lot.

James says, "Look at that guy. He runs like a retard!"

I look and see that the boy is in fact running rather oddly.

James loudly comments on this guys lack of running skill and again uses the word "retarded".

Then the boy gets close to us and it hit us.

"Oh my God." said James, "He is retarded."

The boy was in fact someone with disabilities, struggling his way across the parking lot despite his limitations.

"I'm going to hell." said James.

We started howling with laughter.

I was thinking about this story and I remembered that both James and I were in the "gifted" program in school. At the time we thought it meant we were awesome. We loved it. Eventually though we realized that it was really a special needs program. Many kids with higher intelligence or atypical academic skills have a hard time with social interactions. (For those of you who didn't understand my last sentence; we were nerds.)

So the gifted program was less of an opportunity for us to explore our "gifts" and more of a program to sublimate our unproductive behaviours into more useful pursuits.

I don't think it worked.

I'm still a nerd.

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My Secret Identity

2007-07-27T11:05:00.000-05:00

Every Superhero has a secret origin story.

As "The Startler"(tm), I am no different. When I was just a kid, mom wasn't as disabled as she is now and she had a good sense of humour. (Pain tends to dull one's sense of humour over time sadly.) We used to entertain ourselves my trying to scare or trick Dad in increasingly bizzarre ways.

One time we hid in Dad's closet, so when he came home from work he couldn't find us. Eventually he went to change his clothes and opened the closet. We yelled, "Boo!" He ignored us and changed his clothes.

So we tried harder.

We came up with the brilliant idea of Saran-Wrap. Over the toilet. That's right, we lifted the lid, discreetly sealed the bowl with transparent plastic wrap, and then put the lid down and walked away giggling.

Dad came in from work and charged towards the bathroom (YES!) intent on his mission. He closed the door, so mom and I sneaked up in the hallway and listened. We heard the sounds of someone using the toilet. Then we heard the flush. Then we heard the sounds of handwashing. He opened the door and looked at us like we were nuts.

"What're you guys doing out here?", he asked.

I bolted past him and checked out the toilet. The Saran Wrap was gone. I found it crumpled into a ball in the garbage. Turns out dad thought it was some kind of protective cover mom had put on the toilet while cleaning, so he just tore it off. Shows how much dad knows about bathroom cleaning. Yeesh.

Eventually one of us would let our guard down and the other would take horrible advantage. One time I went into the bathroom and did my thing. I had not idea that mom had staged herself outside the bathroom door, ready to scare me. I finished up and obliviously opened the door. She shoutet, "BOO!"

For reasons that I will never understand my response to the sudden threat was to dance like an epileptic monkey and scream, "YIN-YAA!"

Mom howled. For months.

To this day I just have to say, "Yin-yaa?" to her and she cracks a smile.

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Next Story: Running With Geniuses

Previous Story: I Soiled My Armour I Was So Scared
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I Soiled My Armour I Was So Scared

2007-07-24T13:59:00.000-05:00

This morning I was reminded of the above immortal words from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. It was early and I got up from sleep to use the bathroom. You know how it is, you don't actually open your eyes, you just feel your way around the room since you don't want to turn the lights on and have your head explode. One of the two doors to the bathroom happens to open directly into my bedroom. So I went to the door, wearing only a sleepy smile, and started to open it, while still caught up in my dream about hot girls in Hawaii.

As the door swung open, a deep sepulchral voice boomed, "Yo Ho!" from the general direction of the toilet.

After I climbed down from the top of my bookcase I hurled a few choice insults at the demonic voice on the can. He started to chuckle. I realized it was my dad and mumbled, "S'not funny." He started laughing. I told him to stop laughing, so of course he laughed even harder.

What kind of demented psychopath says, "Yo Ho!" to warn someone that the bathroom is in use? I thought I'd suddenly stumbled into the lair of the Dread Pirate Roberts and he was about to send me to Davey Jones' Locker.

Believe me, you really do not want to frighten someone with an overactive imagination, like yours truly.

Oddly, just the day before my mom was sitting at the computer working on her lit blog and she was so deep in concentration she didn't notice that I'd come around to the other side of the room and was standing behind her on the right. I started to say, "Hey Ma..." and she screamed like the computer had suddenly turned into a snake. She was actually quite upset but I couldn't stop laughing at her.

Karma. She's a mean-spirited bitch that one.

I don't know why it keeps happening but I seem to startle people a lot. I'm fairly large and heavy and my friends can attest to the fact that I generally make a lot more noise than I'm entitled to, so you'd think people would hear me coming. We've got a girl who comes in to take care of the laundry and dusting and such since mom's disabled. I've started singing as I walk down the stairs so that by the time I get to the laundry room she knows I'm coming. The first few weeks I would walk in and say, "Julie, where's the..." and she'd jump like a rabbit.

Now when I walk into the laundry room, even though I'm singing for her benefit, she laughs at me. The nerve.

I get a superpower and instead of something cool like X-ray Vision(tm) or Super-Strength(tm) I get "Sneaky Startle!"(tm)

Great. I'll wear blue tights and a silly mask and walk around calling myself "The Startler"(tm).

Be afraid. Be very afraid. Eat your vegetables or "The Startler"(tm) will get you!

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Next Story: My Secret Identity

Previous Story: Ignorance Is Bliss - Part One of Many
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Ignorance Is Bliss: Part One of Many

2007-07-18T09:20:00.000-05:00

Well I was going to write about how the human experience is built on ignorance but instead I have to share what is happening at this very moment.

The smell of aftershave is burning my lungs. It's my grandfather's aftershave. Problem is, he's DOWNSTAIRS and I'm UPSTAIRS and the air return and ducts downstairs are CLOSED OFF this time of year.

He's wearing so much aftershave it smells like someone broke open a can of "Off!" bug spray in here. He's heading out to visit his "Girlfriend" around the corner. I'm sure she'll appreciate having the lining of her sinuses and lungs burned off.

Holy crap he's outside the house now and I can still smell it. WOW.

Ok back to the subject of ignorance. I woke up this morning remembering a silly song they taught us in school. Here in Canada we learned...

"I'ze the bye that builds the boat,
I'ze the by that sails her!
I'ze the bye that catches the fish,
And takes 'em home to Liz-er!"

We learned about doing hard work and going home to eat a meal we earned ourselves. And we learned how to speak like a Newfie.

What did American schoolchildren learn?

"1814 took a little trip,
Along with Colonel Jackson down the Mighty Missisip!
We took a little bacon and we took a little beans,
And caught the bloody British in the town of New Orleans."

They learned about war.

But wait, that's not he best part. It was a war essentially between Canada and the United States and we BOTH think we won. I am not kidding, check out the Wikipedia entry.

Quote - "The war had the effects of both uniting Canadians and also uniting Americans far more closely than either population had been prior to the war. Canadians remember the war as a victory by avoiding conquest, while Americans celebrated victory in a "second war for independence" personified in the hero of New Orleans, Andrew Jackson."

HURWAH?!?

Man I didn't even get to the point about ignorance. As in, I wonder how many people realize that we once fought a war with the U.S. that both sides feel they won. Good thing there's so much of it that I can write about it again and again.

Man it still stinks in here, I'm going outside.

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Next Story: I Soiled My Armour I Was So Scared

Previous Story: Kids Do the Funniest Things
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Kids Do the Funniest Things

2007-07-17T13:18:00.000-05:00

I spent a large part of the weekend with my cousin Leilani, her husband Greg and their two adorable kids. Avery is two years old, almost three and is the cutest little girl I have ever seen. Micah is one, nearing two and he's huge, built like a small truck. He is unusually friendly and smiles a lot. Together Avery and Micah are comedy gold. They love each other and they love to get into all kinds of trouble together.

Greg showed me pictures from the time Leilani left the room for just a minute with Micah safely strapped into his high chair and little Avery "watching" him while mommy was gone. When Leliani got back in the room, she found Micah had been painted with prunes. Avery was gently doling out spoonfuls of prune preserve onto Micah's head, who giggled and squealed with delight as though it was his favorite thing. The mess was awesome.

So on Sunday night Leilani says to Micah, "Tickle-Shark Uncle Teddy!" I waited, having no idea what was coming. Micah gave me a smile from across the room, put his two little hands together and made a swimming fish gesture, while singing "Doo-DOO, doo-DOO!" and slinking towards me. I started laughing even before he reached me. I made a big fuss when the "Tickle-Shark" arrived and proceeded to tickle my leg, since that was the highest part on me he could reach. Priceless.

At one point, my cousin James says to Micah, "Show us your belly!" So Micah calmy walks over to the couch where I'm sitting and lifts my shirt up, which started everyone into gales of laughter. Later Avery played "I'm the mommy, you're the baby" with James. He put his head on a cushion and pretended to sleep while Avery sang "Rockabye Baby". Of course her take on the lyrics was a little off, turning what should have been a short, harmless ditty into a marathon of gut-busting silliness.

I am trying to remember the story Leilani told me that I wanted to post about something Avery pulled recently but I was drinking Rusty Nails and my memory is foggy. Let me talk to my cousin(s) and I'll share it with you later. I still haven't fully recovered from the weekend, ha ha!

Peace.

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Next Story - Ignorance Is Bliss: Part One of Many

Previous Story: Window Cleaning - Great in Summer, Horrible in Winter
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Window Cleaning - Great In Summer, Horrible In Winter

2007-07-11T10:24:00.000-05:00

Worked for George again this morning. Cleaning windows in the summer is actually kind of nice. You get fresh air, some sunshine. You hair gets natural highlights from the sun, the work is fairly easy and you can use lots of water since it's hot and your water evaporates fast. Lots of water makes it easier. Summer is great.

I would get my own contracts, except for one small thing.

Winter.

Just for fun, George asked me to go with him one time in the dead of winter. Once.

My first clue should have been when we added antifreeze to our water. Half water with with detergent, half -40 antifreeze. Oh goody. So we get out to this crummy filthy restaurant, early in the morning when the sun is barely up and it's -25 real with a -35 windchill. Oh boy. George sends me around to do the front. I plunge my applicator into my bucket of antifreeze and hot water, but the applicator won't go in because A LAYER OF ICE HAS FORMED in the time since I'd left the truck.

I calmly broke the ice and got my applicator nice and wet. Keep in mind that I was not wearing gloves. It's very difficult to wear gloves and handle your equipment properly. Also, George has no feeling in his hands and thinks anyone who works with gloves on is a pansy. Since then I have ignored George's taunts and jeers and have bought myself a pair of the most awesome gloves ever created.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Sealskinz.

But back then , I didn't have my Awesome Waterproof Gloves of Stupendous Glory. I just had my hands. My poor, sad, exposed hands.

So of course as I applied the water to the glass and it poured down onto my hand, the -35 windchill said, "idiot at seven o'clock!" and decided to give me a real thrashing. The cold was horrific. If you have ever been ice fishing and put your exposed hands into the water and then waved them around your head till they froze, you know what I am talking about. If you haven't done this, you can't understand.

I painfully and slowly worked my way across the front of the restaurant, my hands turning into lumps of ice, my feet slipping constantly on the skating rink that was the sidewalk, my very sweat dripping from my brow onto my glasses where it FROZE. I had to scrape the frost OFF MY GLASSES. Whee.

But the moment of true evil was yet to come. As I worked my way around the restaurant, I came to the final plate of glass. The window sat between the buildings in an area that hasn't seen sunlight since 1941. Somehow the cold had numbed my brain and it just didn't occur to that cleaning that plate might be a bad idea.

I made my first swipe my applicator and before I was finished the antifreeze on the glass had turned to slush. In the short time while I stood there stupidly, marveling at the emerging frost designs, my applicator FROZE AGAINST THE GLASS. I had to break it off. The solution on the glass froze solid every quickly, so I walked around to the other side, where the sun was and told George what had happened.

He laughed so hard he nearly split his pants. That George. Ha ha. What a kidder.

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Next Story: Kids Do the Funniest Things

Previous Story: The Great Timbit Incident
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The Great Timbit Incident

2007-07-10T11:04:00.000-05:00

For those of you sad, silly boobs who've never experienced the joy of a fresh Timbit, this is a Timbit.

The chocolate glazed Timbit is currently the most awesome flavour, although the blueberry Timbit they made around here in the 90's was probably the closest thing to baked perfection I'm ever going to know. I hope there's a Tim Horton's somewhere that still makes those. Some place where the sun lights the glass up like fire and an angelic chorus thunders every time a new customer enters.

Blueberry. (sigh)

It happened when I was in high school, "The Great Timbit Incident" of '88 that is. Mr McCutcheoun took our geography class on a field trip all over the contryside to experience the glacial landforms left behind by the ice that once covered this area. It was actually cooler than it sounds.

So partway through the trip, we stopped at a Tim Horton's for a break. I felt generous, so I bought a huge box of Timbits and offered them to everyone. I'd always wanted a valid reason to buy the party-sized box of timbits and it was great.

We headed for the vans, a gaggle of noisy, sugar-hyped teenagers thrilled to be outside instead of trapped in the classroom. I excitedly bounced around, talking about something goofy and gesturing madly with both hands. Hands that were swinging the precious Timbit box.

Apparently the box didn't like the way it was being treated. Suddenly and spectacularly, the bottom of the box came apart. A hail of assorted Timbits launched into the air like mad missiles, dropping onto the pavement and rolling for freedom.

Horrified, I ran. I had to save them. That's when the screaming started. Somewhere in the back of my mind the screaming became more important than the escaping Timbits and I froze in confusion.

That's when the transport truck arrived. Horn wailing, a huge gasoline tanker truck from hell blasted across my path, obliterating the fleeing Timbits and spraying me with dust, dirt and mashed donut matter.

I wept quietly as I rescued the surviving Timbits from among the smashed bodies of their fallen brothers. I gently, reverently placed them back in the box where they could be safe once again.

Poor little Timbits.

The girls laughed and thought it was awfully gross when the guys ate the Timbits that had fallen on the ground. We knew better. It was a badge of courage.

We honoured the fallen by eating the survivors.

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Next Story - Window Cleaning: Great In Summer, Horrible In Winter

Previous Story: The Worst Smell Ever
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You Think You're Tough?

2007-07-10T10:00:00.000-05:00

As Neal Stephenson wrote, "Until a man is twenty-five, he still thinks, every so often, that under the right circumstances he could be the baddest ************ in the world. If I moved to a martial-arts monastery in China and studied real hard for ten years. If my family was wiped out by Colombian drug dealers and I swore myself to revenge. If I got a fatal disease, had one year to live, devoted it to wiping out street crime. If I just dropped out and devoted my life to being bad."

Well these three guys win.

Boy, 5, Subdues Rabid Fox To Protect Family
"A 5-year-old boy grabbed a rabid fox by the neck and pinned it to the ground during a family cookout, protecting six other children until his stepfather could kill the animal."

Man Sucked Out Of Plane At 20,000 Feet Survives
"I was just sitting in my seat, chitchatting with the pilot and then there was this huge explosion, like this real loud popping sound," Fogg said on "Good Morning America." "I was immediately sucked to the right, right out the window."

With his legs and left arm inside the plane, Fogg fought to break free from the intense suction and 200-mph winds.

72 Year Old Ex Marine Beats Down Mugger
There are certain things in life one should learn at a young age. Don’t touch fire: it is hot and will burn you. Don’t dive in shallow water: it is not deep and you will break bones. Apparently someone didn’t learn another valuable lesson; don’t mess with a former marine, or you will likely get owned.

Enter 72-Year-Old Bill Barnes.

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Next News: Good Thing They Have Flippers Not Hands

Previous News: We Don't Know What Ignited The Fire - Police Say
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The Worst Smell Ever

2007-07-06T10:56:00.000-05:00

If you have a weak stomach, leave now.

George regularly cleans the windows at KFC. For those of you from parts of the world where there is no KFC, it stands for Kentucky Fried Chicken and it's a fast-food restaurant that serves... well... fried chicken.

Interesting aside: KFC is the most popular Western fast-food chain in the People's Republic of China. Also KFC is so prevalent in Japan that many Japanese unknowingly consider it to be a Japanese Company. Most KFC stores located in predominantly Islamic countries prepare foods in accordance with halal guidelines. So it's not just a North American thing, it's international.

Oh yeah, apparently KFC products are the most popularly requested items for death row inmates' final meals.

Wow.

So usually George cleans the KFC's in our area on Monday. But sometimes, due to holidays or exceptionally bad weather, the schedule gets changed. That's usually when I get called in to get things back on schedule. So one day he sent me to clean the windows both inside and outside of a KFC... on degreasing day.

I rang the bell and the manager let me in. (It's much easier to clean a restaurant before there are any customers inside.) As I went in, I couldn't help but notice the giant noisy tanker truck with the hoses, sitting behind the restaurant. The nice manager lady explained to me that it was degreasing day. She explained that they basically vacuum out the scum and grease that collect in the bottom of the chicken frier's. Apparently this has to be done regularly or the stuff will rot and then the chicken will get contaminated. Oh boy.

She was very serious and insisted that I listen carefully. So I listened, wondering what any of this had to do with me. I was just there to clean the windows. She explained to me that most people cannot stand to be inside during degreasing because the smell makes them sick. I laughed. She shook her head. She explained that it was not a laughing matter. Some employees actually throw up uncontrollably the first time they are present for a degreasing.

Wow.

I said I'd go outside if it got too bad and went ahead and started cleaning. The degreaser guys started up their equipment and the air began to fill with rotting fried chicken and grease particulate. I calmly cleaned away, and when the smell hit me I thought "OH MY GOD!"... but I didn't barf. I was proud of myself. I kept cleaning.

The initial smell was a rose bouquet compared to the colossal stench when they exposed the lower, more rotten layers of filth. If death wore the worst cologne ever imagined and walked through a palliative care ward while vomiting and defecating, the odour would be a sad, pale imitation of the vile, putrid, festering unholiness that came out of those frier's.

It got so bad I started to black out. I had to run outside and put my head between my knees. Even outside the smell was horrific.

After that, I couldn't eat KFC for more than a year.

Now, I laugh at horrible smells. When others turn green I smile and take a long deep breath. I survived degreasing day. Everything else is a walk past the Macy's perfume counter.

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Next Story: The Great Timbit Incident

Previous Story: I Should Be Having A Rotten Day But I'm Happy
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I Should Be Having a Rotten Day But I'm Happy

2007-07-04T09:55:00.000-05:00

I had to get up at 5:30 this morning, to do some catch-up window work for George. Having to work on a day I was expecting to have off is usually enough to make me miserable. But today has been a descent into madness. Madness!

It started at 1:30 am when I had to get out of bed to call the police.

I wish to God I were making that up.

Some "how YOU doin'" construction worker left one of the excavation machines overnight in the schoolyard across from our house. Apparently they're tearing down some of the portables or something. Some good-for-nothing lackwit teenager who should have been at home in bed decided to vandalize said machine.

This all became evident when the horn / alarm on the machine went off. It was so loud that when I called the police dispatch room, the pleasant but bored dispatcher said, "Wow that's loud, I can hear that clearly over the phone!" Everyone wandered outside in trackpants and nighties to gaze at the noisy spectacle.

But wait, it gets better. Since it wasn't an actual emergency, the cops took their sweet time getting here. They took so long that the machine's battery died and the horn / alarm slowly dwindled until it sounded like a pathetic robot fart, if robots suffered from incontinence. Eventually it stopped, so I called the radio room back and told them the danger had passed. They were relieved, decided to cancel the call out, and went back to watching late night TV.

I went back to bed but was unable to sleep. ARGH.

So I got up at 5:30 and got started on the window cleaning jobs.

At 7:00, it started to rain. -sigh-

You might think that cleaning windows in the rain is impossible or at least, impractical, but let me tell you; with the proper training you can do ANYTHING in the rain. Well, maybe not Origami but pretty much anything else. I guess tailoring a wool suit in the rain would probably not work either. You know, the bad smell, the way the fabric turns itchy, the shrinkage.

Ok so maybe you can't do EVERYTHING in the rain, but you CAN clean windows.

Tomorrow I'll get into the HORRIFIC nightmare I experienced when I got to the KFC. I'll give you a hint. Two words.

Degreasing day.

(BARRRF!)

P.S. Why am I happy? I just am. I could let it all get me down but instead... aw who am I kidding, I'm excited because Dad and I are going to see TRANSFORMERS this afternoon. Giant alien robots that disguise themselves as vehicles smashing each other to pieces and in the process, demolishing most of Los Angeles. YAY! It's pretty much the ultimate premise for a loud, summer action movie. I can't wait!

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Next Story: The Worst Smell Ever

Previous Story: It's Canada Day!
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It's Canada Day!

2007-07-02T17:48:00.001-05:00

I woke up this morning and for some odd reason the first thing that came to my mind was how Canada is different from (read "better than") the United States. So in the spirit of fun, since it is the Canada Day long weekend, here are some of my half-baked insights.

We have Tim Horton's. Everywhere. Let me give you some current facts about Tim Horton's.

"Tim Hortons has supplanted McDonald's as Canada's largest food service operator; it has nearly twice as many Canadian outlets as McDonald's, and its system-wide sales surpassed those of McDonald's Canadian operations in 2002. The chain accounted for 22.6% of all fast food industry revenues in Canada in 2005. Tim Hortons commands 76% of the Canadian market for baked goods (based on the number of customers served) and holds 62% of the Canadian coffee market (compared to Starbucks, in the number two position, at 7%)."

Let's address that final statistic. Tim Hortons 62, Starbucks 7. Our coffee shop is also named after record-breaking NHL star Tim Horton who died tragically in an alcohol related car accident on Feb 21, 1974.

Starbucks is named after a Battlestar Galactica character with really bad hair.

On to celebrities. Canada has given the world comedians Jim Carrey, Mike Myers, and Dan Akroyd. America has given us Pauly Shore. Canada has given the world James Cameron, creator of The Terminator. America has given us director James Sargent, creator of Jaws 4: The Revenge, a film hailed as one of the worst films ever made. It also won the award for "Worst Special Effects" due to "Bruce", the painfully obvious small rubber shark model who roared. I am not making that up. In the movie the shark roars. Like some kind of aquatic lion.

Roars. Out loud. In the air.

Sigh.

Jack Bauer, America's darling anti-terrorist superhero? Played by Canadian actor Kiefer Sutherland. His tremendously hot daughter Kim Bauer? Played by Canadian vixen Elisha Cuthbert.

But perhaps the most powerful and frightening evidence of Canada's superiority comes in the form of James Tiberius Kirk. That's right, Mr. "I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of how awesome I am." was brought to life by Canadian thespian William Shatner.

And for those who still aren't convinced. Two words.

Wayne Gretzky

Number 99... a.k.a "The Great One". The greatest hockey player who ever lived.

And the truly scary part? I haven't even scraped the surface.

Awesome.
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Next Story: I Should Be Having a Rotten Day But I'm Happy

Previous Story: Sales Clerks - Where Do They Get These Guys?
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Vote For June's Post of the Month

2007-07-02T17:46:00.000-05:00

I know June didn't have as many posts as May or April did, but with Blogger locking Popular Fiction and my crazy schedule, things just got out of hand. I know there aren't many to choose from but please, post a comment and vote for your favorite story. Here's the complete list for your convenience.

P.S. I promise there will be more posting in July. Back on Schedule!

If Animals Could Talk It Would Be Scary
The Time I Almost Died
The Time I Almost Got Run Over by a Bus
Frodo and the Old Nazi
Excuse Me Sir, There's a Tree in Your Car
Sorry Buddy
Sometimes the Funny Just Isn't There
Roast Beef Is Not For Puppies
Even The Dog Won't Eat It
CIBC Lost My Bank Account
Sales Clerks - Where Do They Get These Guys?

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Back to the Main Page
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"We Don't Know What Ignited The Fire" Police Said

2007-06-29T12:23:00.000-05:00

Texas cops... for the win.

Man Bursts Into Flames After Being Shot By A Taser Gun

Quote - 'Officers used the gun after the man had poured gasoline over himself.'

Quote - '"We don't know what ignited the fire," police said.'

You've gotta be kidding me.

Maybe next time they can "subdue the supsect by throwing lit matches at him in an effort to startle him." - (thanks to Mr. Fed for that great line)

This is the same state whose first female governor is reputed to have said "If English was good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for Texas schoolchildren”

Wow.

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Next News: You Think You're Tough?

Previous News: The Best Thrill Ride Ever
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Sales Clerks - Where Do They Get These Guys?

2007-06-29T12:00:00.000-05:00

I remembered this story after reading this thread over at the Octopus Overlords gaming forums.

I Walked into Electronics Boutique back in 2003 (nearly a year after the game Dungeon Siege was released, by Microsoft... which means a very wide release, it's important) and was browsing the PC games section, which was much larger back then. The store was very busy and there was a guy standing right in front of me browsing the same shelf.

A clerk came over and asked the man if he needed help finding something. The man asked if they had any copies of "Dungeon Siege". The clerk replied...

"I've never heard of it. We don't carry it."

I said, "Excuse me" and without moving my feet, reached between the clerk and the man to the shelf, where I pulled out one of their six copies of Dungeon Siege. I handed it to the man and said, "There you go." He thanked me and asked me if it was good. I gave him a quick review. The game is pretty and has a great soundtrack by Jeremy Soule and it's easy to get into. On the down side it almost plays itself and it gets boring and repetitive quite quickly. He said that sounded exactly like the light couple of hours of entertainment he was looking for, thanked me again and went over to the counter to buy it.

The clerk looked at me and said...

"Can I help you find something?"

I turned and walked out of the store.

If you work in retail sales, let me give you a bit of advice. Nobody cares whether you've "heard of it" or not. If you don't know, say "Let me look it up on the computer." or something. Anything. We didn't come to the store to hear your vaunted opinions on whether something exists or not and whether it's worth buying or not. We came to buy something. So shut up and sell it to us.

I went into an MDG computer store last year, with their flyer in my hand and the sales people swore up and down that the flyer was a misprint. They they had the nerve to tell me (I built my last computer from parts and my first job was as a sales clerk at Compucentre) that the PC I was interested in could not be connected to the Internet.

What? No seriously, what? I can connect my left sock to the Internet with the right equipment. Are these people on drugs?

I got the manager's attention and asked him about the flyer special and told him what I wanted. He refused to look at the flyer and said...

"I've never heard of that. We don't have that."

I turned around and walked out of the store.

I don't shop at Electronics Boutique or MDG any more. It's the fault of the sales clerks. And these stores wonder why they're losing customers to online retailers? Yes, I bought my last PC online. And it was a wonderful experience.

Nobody told me I couldn't connect my PC to the Internet.
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Next Story: It's Canada Day!

Previous Story: CIBC Lost My Bank Account
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CIBC Lost My Bank Account

2007-06-28T15:55:00.000-05:00

This story is so far out there, I won't be offended if you don't believe it. It happened to me and I still don't believe it.

I used to have multiple accounts at CIBC back when I became the sole owner of my tax business. My last partner left amicably, leaving all the clients for me. I can't imagine why I thought that was a good thing. Especially considering the caliber of some of my clients.

See EXHIBIT A and EXHIBIT B

I rest my case, Your Honour.

Anyway I had this one business account that I only used for depositing client cheques during the tax season. The account went dormant for six months of the year so I made arrangements with the nice lady who helped me set up the account. Normally an account that is dormant for that long is suspended and the customer is notified. We put a flag on the account indicating that it was not to be suspended due to inactivity. It worked fine for several years.

One year, at the beginning of tax season, I went in to the bank to check out my balances and get some cheques. This was just before online banking became the in thing, so I had to actually go into the bank. Yeah, the Stone Age, I know.

I handed the lady my ATM card for my personal account, we did our transactions and everything went smoothly. Then I handed the lady my ATM card for the business account and things turned south quickly.

"I'm sorry sir but there's no account attached to this card.", she told me, with a smile.

Must be a glitch in the card, I thought. So I pulled out a business cheque and handed it to her. She clicked some keys and entered the account information using the numbers on the cheque.

"I'm sorry sir but this account number is invalid.", she said, with a smile.

Not one to be put off so easily, I pulled out the original account sign-up paperwork which I conveniently kept in my tax bag. I handed it to her and she went to get the manager. Again, with a smile. After a very long discussion and a lot of computer wrangling, they both came over to me.

The manager said, "I'm sorry sir, but we have no record of you ever having a business account with CIBC, not at this or any other CIBC branch. Are you sure the account was here?"

Calmly, I handed her the business chequebook and showed here where it said "CIBC" on it and then I showed her that the account sign-up papers were official "CIBC" documents. I suggested that she contact the nice lady who had set up the account for me.

Eventually she came back and told me that the woman whose name was on the account paperwork no longer worked for CIBC and that her records were "unavailable". Since there was no record in their paperwork or in their computer of the account, it must not have existed. The paperwork and cheques I had were irrelevant. Was there anything I she could help me with before I left?

I asked if an investigation could be launched and she explained that without proof on their end that there had ever been an account, no investigation would be undertaken.

"Have a nice day, sir."

I was staggered.

I did the only thing I could think of to do. I went over to T.D. Canada Trust and opened a new account over there. On the up side, there hadn't been an real money in the account when it disappeared.

"CIBC... If We Lose Your Account, It's Not Our Fault!"

Banks.

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Previous Story: Even The Dog Won't Eat It
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Even The Dog Won't Eat It

2007-06-26T12:01:00.000-05:00

Not long after the incident with the roast beef, Frodo had an experience that I'm usre he's never forgotten. I brought home some sushi for mom and I, and among the wonderful bits and goodies was some eel. Neither of us like eel. For some reason every sushi tray seems to include a piece of smelly eel. No one knows why. Not even Frodo.

He was dancing around the kitchen following the amazing smells coming off our sushi tray; tuna, salmon, wasabi, soy sauce. He was getting a little crazy. While I was trying to avoid him I accidentally dropped the container with the bits we didn't like in it. Included in those bits was a hunk of raw eel. The hunk of eel shot out of the little styrofoam container and landed on the floor right in front of Frodo, alias "Shop Vac". He inhaled the hunk of eel less than a second after it landed.

He froze, and then did something we have never seen him do before (or since). He spit it out. Keep in mind this is a creature that eats its own feces. He didn't spit out the tomato, the sock, the branch, the kleenex box or the eucalyptus leaves. We had to deal with the ugly aftermath of each one of those. Incredibly the tomato was the worst. It gave him the runs. Every ten minutes. For four days.

But the eel he spit out? You have to wonder what business we have eating something that even a dog won't eat.

Interestingly, Mom dropped one of her pills the other day. Frodo teleported from wherever he'd been hiding to the pill and gave it a sniff. I guess the smell of mouldly skunk and burning vomit was too much for him. He ran away from the awful smelling thing. (For those who think I am exaggerating the drug is called Cyclosporine and it's made from fungus.)

But you have to wonder. I mean, even the dog won't eat it?
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Next Story: CIBC Lost My Bank Account

Previous Story: Roast Beef Is Not For Puppies
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Roast Beef is Not For Puppies

2007-06-25T00:01:00.000-05:00

I'll never forget the moment I first laid eyes on Frodo. Mom and I went out to the breeder in the country, to meet "puppy", an eight week old white Bull Terrier. The breeder told us that "puppy" was in the garage. She opened the door and I stepped in first. In the middle of the garage was a giant green bag of dog food. Sticking out of the hole in the top of the bag was a small white bum and a tail whipping back and forth. He'd found the mother lode.

The second thing Frodo did, after the breeder had pulled him out of the bag and set him on the garage floor, was pee indignantly. Then he wandered off to play with "Hammer", the breeder's massive German Shepherd. Hammer jumped in the pond. Frodo stood at the edge and glared at the water. Only after realizing that he couldn't reach Hammer without getting wet, did he turn his attention to us.

In those first moments, he made his priorities clear. Food, peeing, other dogs, then people. After 11 years his pattern hasn't changed. Neither has his taste in food.

His first experience with a roast beef was nearly his last. Dad pulled the juicy cross rib roast out of the roasting pan and set it reverently on the large cutting board on the counter. For some reason, Dad left the kitchen for a few seconds. When we went back in we heard a grief-stricken scream. I ran into the kitchen and saw that Frodo had pulled the entire roast off the cutting board and onto the floor and was digging in.

Dad doesn't usually charge. He's quite big and slow so charging isn't in his repertoire. But that day, he charged. His battle cry would have shamed a Scottish Warlord. Frodo looked up in terror and dropped the roast. Dad snarled something about killing and death and maiming and dogs of questionable parentage and breaking and smashing and beating. Frodo ran and hid under Mom's desk, out of reach.

It's hard watching a parent cry, but my dad wept as he solemnly carried the mangled roast beef to the trash. Later, when Frodo dared to show his face, my father explained loudly to him that "roast beef is not for puppies!" I would have laughed out loud if Dad hadn't been so upset.

Frodo has never stolen a roast beef again. I can't imagine why.
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Previous Post: Sometimes The Funny Just Isn't There
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Sometimes the Funny Just Isn't There

2007-06-21T12:57:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting here, looking at my cheat sheet of funny story material and none of it seems funny to me. A week ago half of these topics would have made me laugh out loud just thinking about them, but this week I just can't find the funny. It's like my imagination is broken or something.

Don't get me wrong, I don't have writer's block. I think writer's block is about as real as Santa Claus. Either you can write or you can't. If you can, it doesn't turn off. There's no handle on the creative faucet. I can write, I just don't find anything funny right now. I could go on all day about serious stuff right now, but the funny just isn't coming.

So one night a rabbi, a lawyer and a camel walk into a bar...

See? Imaginative, yes. Funny, no.

Off-topic: Last night I was talking to Dan of "Even the Fish Couldn't Stand the Smell" fame. He went fishing last week and he was reminiscing about our famous fishing trip together. He's a very big man now (he works in construction) and he told me how he was the biggest guy in the boat. This brought back memories of my dad in the boat, sitting near the outboard, the back end of the boat dangerously low in the water, the bow sticking up into the air.

I remember one morning when I'd refused to go out with Dan, James and my Dad in the boat because it was going to rain something fierce. They were mighty hunters who didn't fear a little rain. They went anyway. So of course, as soon as they were as far away from shore as they could get without leaving the Province, a monsoon started. I waited and watched. Soon their little boat appeared. My dad sat in his position at the back, the back end mere inches above the waterline. James and Dan sat miserably in the middle, bailing for dear life. The boat looked like a bathtub. The rain pounded down on them mercilessly. I stood, dry and warm in the cabin doorway and laughed at them the entire time.

I guess that day, the funny was there.

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Next Story: Roast Beef Is Not For Puppies

Previous Story: Sorry Buddy
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Sorry Buddy

2007-06-18T09:08:00.000-05:00

If I had to choose a phrase to describe my life until now, "Sorry buddy" would be the top contender.

Of course, those words were spoken by my father. Over and over again. The same guy who spilled paint all over himself and exposed himself in public and even rode a bronco during a funeral also had a singular talent for inadvertently maiming, smashing or otherwise incapacitating me. There were the times he backed up the car while I was only halfway inside. The times he closed the trunk/door/oven on my fingers. The times whacked me with a fishing rod/ladder/two-by-four.

Each of these occasions was followed by a, "sorry buddy."

One time we had far too many people staying in our house for some reason, so I ended up sleeping on a mattress on the floor downstairs. Dad came through on his way to the laundry room and before I could shout, "No!" he stepped on my head. He stopped and looked down, just as I looked up. All I saw through the stars and tears was an expanse of blue underwear above my head. High comedy.

I think the best "sorry buddy" moment ever happened while we were finishing the basement. We were nailing up runners for the suspended ceiling, so dad was standing on a small stepladder. I stood behind the ladder and handed him tools and nails. We had a whole surgeon and medical team thing going on. He'd say, "nail" or "hammer" and I'd hand it to him. Eventually he stopped looking and just reached behind himself, knowing I'd be holding out the appropriate item. This worked well for a while, until he got confused.

I was standing behind him on the right. He thought I was standing behind him on the left. He reached for a clip with his left hand and threw the hammer down with his right. The arc of his throw put the hammer head squarely between my eyes.

There was a terrible ghastly noise in my head. When the noise stopped I realized I was lying on my back, on the floor. Dad looked around and saw me, realized what he'd done and said, "Oh! Sorry buddy."

Someday I'm going to have a little guy of my own. We'll be working together and I'll inadvertently injure him. He'll look up at me with tears forming in his eyes and before I can help myself, I'll turn to him and say, "sorry buddy."

Then my failure will be complete.

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Next Story: Sometime the Funny Just Isn't There

Previous Story: Excuse Me Sir, There's a Tree in Your Car
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Excuse Me Sir, There's a Tree in Your Car

2007-06-13T08:23:00.000-05:00

Given the tremendous amount of time I've spent at the mechanic's this past week, I thought a car story would be in order. For those who are wondering, there are problems with my rad, thermostat, muffler, flex hose, catalytic converter, motor mounts, steering pump and oh yes we mustn't forget... my head gasket. Jim got the car running again, after three new rads (At their expense, not mine. Thank goodness.) and he tells me the car could last two weeks or two years, there's no way to tell. I guess I'll just drive it into the ground ha ha. I only paid $2500 for it and I've gotten 3 years & 3 months so far, so I can't really complain.

But Dad can complain. Oh my can he ever complain. Way back in '87 Dad bought an 86' Caprice Classic Brougham with only 8000 km on it. It was a dealership runabout car so it was in very good condition. It weighed in at 3528 lbs. and was painted Battleship Grey. That's right, it was the M1 Abrams of luxury sedans. A veritable tank.

And I drove it like one.

We call the undeveloped area south of the city, "The Country" even though it's not true wilderness. It's mostly farmland and dirt roads though, so it feels like the country. I was out with the car, in "The Country" and I got to one of those roads that becomes impassable during wet weather. I figured I had nothing to fear. It hadn't rained in at least a week and I was driving a tank. No problem.

I got about 50 meters in before I realized I wasn't going to make it. Sighing, I put the Caprice in reverse and started churning dirt. Of course, the car was riding lower on the way back, thanks to the deep tire treads and the cars tremendous weight. So I scraped up quite a bit of mud and shrubbery into the undercarriage. I got out successfully and drove away, happy that I'd avoided a potential disaster.

Since Mom and Dad were leaving for Florida in a few days, I thought it best to make sure I put the car through a really thorough car wash before going home. The car was spic and span and Dad was happy that I'd been thoughtful enough to wash it for their trip.

After they arrived in Florida, I got a phone call. It was Dad. The Caprice had apparently started leaking transmission fluid so they'd stopped at a mechanic. While the car was up on the hoist, the mechanic came back and said the famous words, "Excuse me sir, there's a tree in your car." Apparently I had run over a sapling while backing out of the mess on that country road, and it had gotten caught in the undercarriage. The tree was removed, the transmission lines were repaired and everything was fine.

Dad however, was livid. I learned my lesson.

Actually a few years ago my cousin and I were driving his father's car out in the country and... I'm sure you can guess what happened.

Yeah, we took it to the car wash before bringing it home. This time, I checked for trees.
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Next Story: Sorry Buddy

Previous Story: Frodo and the Old Nazi
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Frodo and the Old Nazi

2007-06-11T20:15:00.000-05:00

I just have to share a little story about what happened last night. You need to know that my miserable 97 year old grandfather now lives with us and that my miserable 10 year old Bull Terrier Frodo hates him more than he hates the neighbor's cat. Frodo has a collection of stuffed animals that he carries from room to room and bumps us with, so that we'll play his favorite game. It's called "Pull." Yes, it's as simple as it sounds. What can I say, he's a Bull Terrier not a Border Collie. Sometimes if Frodo is feeling diplomatic or especially sorry for something, usually a garbage bag tearing or theft of food incident, he will leave one of his stuffed animals as a peace offering.

Last night, Dad and I were watching "24" when Grandpa wandered through on his way to bed. He closed his bedroom door. After a minute, the door opened and Grandpa hurled out one of Frodo's giant brown bears. Then he closed the door and went back to bed. We started laughing. Of course this was terribly inappropriate since several people had just died horribly during the episode of "24" we were watching. Somehow it made us laugh even harder.

Sometimes I wonder about our family, I really do.

Another time, my cousin James stopped by just as I was letting Frodo out to do his business and we ended up taking Frodo for a walk around the block. Unfortunately I had forgotten to bring bags for collecting Frodo's poop. I hoped he wouldn't need to poop but he started giving off signs like he was about to hunker down and I shouted at him, "NO! No pooping!" He was determined though, so I forced him to hold it until we got over a sewer grate and I shouted, "Poop now! Poop now!" Frodo obliged, sending his little nuggets splashing into the storm sewer below.

For the next year, every time we walked over a sewer grate, Frodo had to stop and try to poop. After ten years we still can't train him to not bark when someone comes in the house, but after one incident, he was sewer trained. Go figure.

I can't wait 'till I have kids.
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Previous Story: The Time I Almost Got Hit by a Bus
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The Time I Almost Got Run Over by a Bus

2007-06-08T12:09:00.000-05:00

Ahh, high school.

Some of us lived far enough away from our school that we took the city bus every day. There'd be a whole gaggle of us noisy, rowdy kids waiting for the extra buses the city put on the route.

Actually that reminds me of one of the most offensive things I have ever seen a bus driver do. The bus was late, and I don't mean by five minutes. For some reason we'd waited almost half an hour for the bus to arrive. The bus driver was a lady I'd never seen before. At the first main street an elderly man got on the bus and used a transfer. The transfer ticket was expired by about two minutes. The bus driver told the man he'd have to pay cash, use a ticket or get off.

He refused. He claimed that he'd been waiting at least twenty minutes for the bus and that it was her problem because she was late. She snarled, "We run a ten minute bus service! Pay or get off!" Several of us came forward and told the bus lady that we rode that bus every day and she was in fact between twenty and thirty minutes late and that the gentleman was not trying to stiff her. She stopped the bus and screamed at us to sit down and shut up or she'd throw us off the bus.

We sat down and shut up. The gentleman decided to handle things diplomatically and paid cash for his fare. Problem solved. Or not. He sat up at the front and continued talking to the bus driver, insisting that she was being unreasonable and unprofessional. He asked her for her driver I.D. number.

She freaked. She stopped the bus, opened the door and screamed at him to get off the bus or she'd call the police and have him arrested for assault. Everyone else on the bus was too scared to do anything so we just sat quietly and waited. The gentleman picked up his cane and calmly got off the bus. We spent the rest of our bus ride in stunned silence.

We never saw that bus driver again. Thank goodness.

But I was going to tell you about the time I almost got run over by a bus.

The usual crew after school was waiting for the bus. Included in the crew was Sara Gale. I happened to be standing next to her and noticed that her lip looked different that it had the day before. I thought about it for a while until it hit me. Of course I was too stupid to keep it to myself. Just as the bus was coming I asked her loudly, "Hey, did you shave your upper lip?"

Oh boy.

The next thing I knew I was on my back in the middle of the road, my glasses were broken and the bus brakes were squealing. The bumper shadow stopped just over my head. Apparently she'd punched me right in face and sent me sprawling into the path of the "yellow peril".

For the record, it was my fault and I was entirely in the wrong and I deserved worse than I got.

Sheesh.
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Next Story: Frodo and the Old Nazi

Previous Story: The Time I Almost Died
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The Time I Almost Died

2007-06-07T21:00:00.000-05:00

To quote a Denzel Washington movie I really shouldn't have watched or even know about, "I want to tell you about the time I almost died."

It was in high school, so of course it involves a nerd. But not just any nerd. As someone famous once said, "Some people are born nerds, some acheive nerdhood, and others have nerdiness thrust upon them." Chris Mclean was born clutching a pocket protector. He was a king among nerds. He had the uncontrollable acne, the mad scientist hair, and wore the same two pairs of pants (one white, one blue) every day for the entire four years of high school.

To top it off, he was insanely smart. His IQ was out there in Einstein land. Don't get me wrong, I was a nerd in high school, that's why Mclean and I ended up together in the "gifted program". But I was an amateur nerd compared to him. If my sources are correct he's now Dr. Mclean, Professor of Physics at McMaster University. If Canada ever runs a Manhattan Project, I'm sure he'll be the first scientist they call.

But back then we were just goofy teenagers with no idea in hell about anything in the real world. Chris and I, we lived in our heads. He lived in a world of particles and waves, I lived in a world of language and drama. So of course, in order to draw attention away from my own nerdiness, I bullied him mercilessly. Sad really, but what can I say, I was an idiot back then.

One of my favorite pastimes was throwing his gymbag out the window. He had this huge blue gymbag with a metric ton of books in it, so it made a very satisfying dent in the grass when it landed, especially when tossed from the second floor. Not only would he explode in a spectacularly entertaining way, but if I was lucky, some teacher on a lower floor would notice and call the Principal's office, starting an investigation that would eat up at least half an hour of boring "learning" time. If I was tremendously lucky, I would become the center of attention for the rest of the day, sitting in a desk in the hallway or outside the Principal's office, gleefully explaining why I was there to every passerby, the story growing wierder and crazier with each telling. Ahh... high school.

Anyway I was going to tell you about the time I almost died. Once at the end of the day, Chris Mclean, Rob Williams, Chris Traini and I happened to leave by the same door at the same time. Rob and Mclean were buddies and Chris T. (as we called him, I'm sure you can see the pun there) wanted to see if Mclean was going to lose it, since I'd been harrassing him all day. Of course, Chris T. kept to a minimum safe distance.

Mclean loudly declared, "Fuhringer! Get lost right now, I am not up to dealing with you." Everyone stopped to see what I would do. I walked up to Mclean and shouted, "Gee-chee!" while poking him in the belly. High comedy. He turned purple. "Fuhringer! If you touch me again, I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!" Chris T and Rob started backing away and giggling nervously.

There was no way I could resist. I very slowly and gently poked him in the belly and quietly asked, "Gee-chee?"

Unlike Captain Kirk's "KHAAAN!" shout, Mclean's scream could in fact be heard in space. His face twisted into a rictus, he dropped his gymbag and he charged. What choice did I have? I ran. With Rob shouting, "RUN!" and Chris T. lauhghing his guts out at my imnpending doom, Mclean hurled himself after me across the field, his fists flailing inches behind my head. He caught the back of my shirt and started reeling me in. I was dead meat.

Until he slipped on a patch of wet grass and fell. I am alive today to tell this story only because of bit of moisture and some bad sneaker tread.

And because I kept running.
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Previous Story: If Animals Could Talk It Would Be Scary
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The Best Thrill Ride Ever

2007-06-07T11:50:00.000-05:00

This news item is awesome and wrong, hilarious and horrifying. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Best Thrill Ride Ever. Words just aren't adequate, so here's a picture.

Yes, that's a guy in a wheelchair, jammed in the front grill of a semi truck.

On the highway.

Going 50 miles per hour.

Quote - "Calls began pouring in to the Paw Paw post of the Michigan State Police around 4:00 p.m. The first call came in with a woman telling dispatchers, "You are not going to believe this, there is a semi- truck pushing a guy in a wheel chair on Red Arrow Highway!""

I am in awe of this guy. He now has the best campfire story ever.

Quote - "Police say the 21-year-old man was un-harmed and unfazed by the incident. The young man was quoted as saying, "It was quite a ride.""

This guy is a master of understatement.
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If Animals Could Talk It Would Be Scary

2007-06-06T16:52:00.000-05:00

No, really.

I was thinking about If Animals Could Talk To Me and it occurred to me that if animals could really talk, they'd probably tell us off. Think about all the trouble we've caused them.

Like my friend Travis' cat, "Mio". Of course we mercilessly call it "Neo" which upsets Travis' wife and then we don't get invited back for a while... ahem. One time while we were playing Settlers of Catan, Jeff decided to pick up Mio and rub his anal glands on my head, like a roll-on deodorant. Obviously I didn't enjoy the experience and I said so. Now imagine if Mio could talk. What would he have to say about being used in such a humiliating way?

I'm sure it would involve language that would get this blog marked as Not Suitable For Work. He's a cat, they can kill with a glance. A talking cat would be too dangerous to live.

On the other hand, imagine if dogs could talk. Imagine how many biting incidents could be avoided if a dog could say, "Excuse me but if you keep poking me with that stick, I'm going to shove it up your ass."

It reminds me of this demented hungarian dog my grandparents used to have when they lived out on the farm. Grandpa used to kick and beat the dog, so by the time us kids showed up it was pretty much ready for the kill. We used to dread the run from the car to the house. Of course one time, right there with my dad standing next to me the dog decided he'd had enough. I was the closest and smallest target. He rushed me, so I turned and he clamped his jaw firmly on my bum.

If you've ever had a slavering, insane dog clamped to your bum, then you know true terror. I had to lay on the dining room table while everyone looked at the bites on my bum and my wounds were cleaned. Yay for iodine on the bum.

My point is, the whole thing could have been avoided if the poor dog could have expressed itself with words. Although I suppose, it expressed itself just fine. After all, I did get the point.

Right in my bum.

Sigh.

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Previous Story: If The Animals Could Talk To Me
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blogger.com has no sense of humour

2007-06-06T16:41:00.000-05:00

Blogger bots have no sense of humour. For five days this blog was locked by blogger.com. The spam bots declared 'Popular Fiction' to be a spam blog. Apparently the bots didn't appreciate my brand of humour. Eventually a real person looked at the blog and unlocked it. I'm sorry I was unable to post, but things are back to normal now. Thank you for your patience and I hope you continue to enjoy reading 'Popular Fiction'... as long as the bots leave me alone.

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Next News: The Best Thrill Ride Ever

Previous News: Vote For May's Post of the Month
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Vote For May's Post of the Month

2007-06-01T10:20:00.000-05:00

It's June, so it's time to pick your favorite story from last month. Please post a comment stating which story you enjoyed the most. For your convenience, here's a list of all of May's stories.

I Thought I Had The Radiation Sickness
It's Not On My Resume But I Am a Skilled Pyromaniac
Nothings Wrong, I'm Just Watering The Patio
The Conclusion of the Fire Trilogy (For Now)
They Don't Call it the Chemistry "Final" For Nothing
If I Could Talk to the Animals
Electricity is Dangerous - Shocking Details Follow
Things That Go "Bonk, Smash, Ouch!" in the Night
The Top Five Fuhringer Family Fishing Trip Disasters
Everybody Wants to be Famous
Pillar of Fire - It Runs in the Family
Adventures in Cuba - The Bus Driver From Hell
I've Got a Rip in My Pants Again
That's Not How We Use Our Crayons
They Called Me "Ink Mouth"
Squirrels Aren't Stupid, They're Just Thrill Seekers
More Squirrel Madness - Indoor Rodent Sports
My Dad Could Mess Up 'Shake 'n Bake'
Barbecue Tips For the Insane
Communication - The Keep Two a Shabbly Family Live
Window Cleaning With George - Episode One
Window Cleaning Again, Now With More Golf
Golf - With My Mom
The Only Patch of Ice in the Entire Parking Lot
The Only Banana Peel in the Entire Valley
The Password is 'IMARETARD'
If the Animals Could Talk to Me

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If The Animals Could Talk to Me

2007-05-31T16:03:00.000-05:00

In an earlier post I commented on how I normally get along with animals. There have been a few exceptions though.

Just before I worked at Compucentre I filled in for a friend who had a newspaper route. It was an easy route, just a few streets side by side. No problem.

On the route was one house with a high wooden fence and and unusually high door. I gave it almost no thought. I walked up to the house and put the newspaper in the mailbox. I was standing less than three feet from the fence when a deep, demonic voice from behind the fence said, "Roo."

After I climbed off the wall trellis I took a few steps away from the fence and decided to try being friendly. I said, "Hi doggie!" with my 'harmless' voice. The dog ignored my attempt at diplomacy and decided to investigate. It jumped up until its head was above the fence line, barked, then fell back down. I thought it was over, but no. The dog kept jumping. Over and over again. Jump - "Roo" - Fall, Jump - "Roo" - Fall, Jump - "Roo" - Fall.

I watched for a while, amused. Then it turned into something really bizarre. A second dog appeared and began doing the same thing, only it jumped as the first dog fell. It turned into a left, right, left, right, left, right, "Roo!", "Roo?", "Roo!", "Roo?".

A lady from across the street came out of her house, laughing. She told me the dogs did that all the time and entertained everyone on the block. I stood and watched a little while longer. It was amazing.

I asked, "Do they have a trampoline in there?" She said no, they're just huge and can jump really high.

I eventually met the family who lived there and was introduced to the dogs. They were a pair of very friendly doberman-rottweiler siblings. They were bigger than my car.

I'm glad they were friendly.
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The Password is 'IMARETARD'

2007-05-30T21:06:00.000-05:00

My very first 'real' payroll job (not counting newspaper delivery or door-to-door surveys) was working at Compucentre in the Eaton Centre as a Sales Associate. Basically my job was to dress well, greet customers and pretend that I understood what they were asking me. Then I directed them to someone who actually understood. Nice and simple.

Keep in mind, this was way back in 1990. The 386 was the hot PC with the new blazing fast 486's on the way at a spectacular 33 MHz! Word Perfect for DOS 4.01 was the number one word processing software. The biggest hard drive we sold was 20 Megabytes and it cost more than I made in three months. We're talking the Dark Ages of computer history.

So this guy comes in. All attitude, no brains. Typical customer. Thank God the manager was present and was the one to greet this winner. "Yeah this piece of **** software you sold me doesn't work!" he exclaimed, throwing the package down on the counter like a piece of spoiled meat. The manager calmly asked the gentleman what was wrong with the software. "It won't ******* run!", screamed Mr. Personality.

The manager took the disks over to his computer and suggested that they try it out so he could see exactly what was wrong. Customer Number One calmed down a bit and said that was s good idea. The manager got the software started and was stopped when the program asked for a password.

He stepped aside and asked Mr. Happy to please enter his password to access the program. The guy said, "I don't have a password, this is what I was talking about, it won't run!" The manager thought for a minute and asked, "Tell me what happened the first time you ran the program, did it start?" The guy said yes and explained that it had started fine the first time but wouldn't start again after that.

The manager explained that in order for it to have worked the first time, the customer would have had to enter a password first. He asked the customer if he had entered a password. He said, "I don't know I just pressed keys until it started." The manager asked if he had any idea what keys he'd pressed and the brilliant customer explained that he'd typed in something obscene, thinking it wouldn't matter and he could come up with a real password later. The manager asked what he'd typed. The guy couldn't remember.

So they sat there, trying every obscene word or phrase the guy could think of. Nothing worked. Eventually the manager told the customer that we couldn't refund his money if he'd failed to follow the instructions when using the software and that there was no way to reset the software once a password had been entered. The guy threw a fit. The manager handed the package back to him and said, "Have a nice day, sir."

We waited until he'd left the store before we started laughing. The manager didn't laugh. He said, "I'm not giving the guy a refund just because he's a ******* retard."

Ahh, the good old days.
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Next Story: If the Animals Could Talk to Me

Previous Story: The Only Banana Peel in the Entire Valley
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The Only Banana Peel in the Entire Valley

2007-05-29T17:11:00.000-05:00

...continued from yesterday's story
The Only Patch of Ice in the Entire Parking Lot

At least I know where I got it from. We laughed at my dad, but fate still had a few good cards up her sleeve. I should have known better.

When I worked for UPS, a group of us took driver training so we could work as fill-in drivers and make extra money. Part of the training required that we attend a course that was held in Toronto, at the UPS hub near the Humber Valley. When we got there, every main parking lot was full, so we were told to park in an auxiliary lot on the other side of the valley and walk over.

It was a surprisingly long walk and we were late, so we were really moving. We'd worked from 3 am to 8 am, then driven to Toronto, so we were tired and somewhat giddy. All we needed to burst into hysterical laughter was one good joke or one good pratfall.

Enter Karma.

I was hustling up the hill between two of my work mates when someone noticed mud. "Careful of the mud!" was shouted. We picked our way carefully up to the crest of the hill, avoiding the muddy path. As I got to the top, the earth fell away from under my feet.

Even the best drunken Ukrainian folk dancer could not have performed the flailing back flip I pulled off. I made Bruce Campbell's back flip in Evil Dead 2 look amateurish. I actually rotated one and a half turns, then twisted so my backside would take the brunt of the hit.

Incredibly, my landing was soft. It was soft because my butt impacted a small puddle of mud, just the right size for my rear end to fit into snugly. I landed with my ass wedged into a muddy hole and my legs sticking up over my head.

My colleagues lost it. "Hey," I said, "could someone help me out here." They laughed harder. "Come on guys." Hoots and hollers ensued. "My ass is getting really wet." They collapsed. One of them pointed at the ground nearby and in between sobbing gaps and giggles asked, "Didn't you see the banana?"

The look on my face must have been priceless because it set off a whole new round of helpless laughter. Everyone was laughing so hard, no one had the strength to pull me up. I pried myself out of the hole and checked out my pants. They were soaked through, a brown circle on the ass of my jeans, my underwear soaked through.

I looked down and saw that indeed, there was a banana peel. I had managed to step on the only banana peel in the entire Humber Valley that just happened to be next to a mud puddle that just happened to be the size of my rear end. I accepted my fate and continued walking stoically towards the building.

As we were leaving the accident site, I picked up the banana peel and threw it far away from the puddle. "There," I thought, "now no one else will suffer my fate."

Oh, what a sad silly boob I was.

I got through the course, including the road training, despite my brown, wet pants. We finished up the day and, utterly exhuasted, headed back towards the car. Somebody told me to watch out for the mud puddle and the giggling started again. When we got to the hole, it had dried and formed a perfect impression of my jean covered ass. CSI could have used it as evidence. Everyone started howling. I tromped off down the hill miserably.

That's when I stepped on the banana peel again.

I ended up on my face, my nose full of bulrushes, my butt over my head and my legs flailing in the air. I scrambled to my feet, looked down and saw the offending banana peel, exactly where it had landed when I'd thrown it.

I was stunned. "You gotta be ****ing kidding me." I said.

My colleagues lost it completely. I have never heard anyone laugh so hard in my life. I shook my head and walked away.

Exit Karma.
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Next Story: The Password is 'IMARETARD'

Previous Story: The Only Patch of Ice in the Entire Parking Lot
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The Only Patch of Ice in the Entire Parking Lot

2007-05-28T20:09:00.000-05:00

My father has a singular talent. If there's only one of something, he can find it, but only if he's not looking for it. Like the only dead end on a circular island road. Like the only cop for two hundred miles at the precise moment you need the cops to be not looking. Like the only banana peel next to a mud puddle in the entire Humber Valley. (Actually that last one was me, I'll tell you about it tomorrow.)

So one winter James and I went shopping with my dad. He needed to stop at Radio Shack to pick up some part for one of his bizarre projects. He told us to wait in the car.

What you need to know is that it was cold, but there was no snow. It hadn't snowed or rained in days. The ground was completely dry. There should have been no ice. If anyone but my father had been walking across the parking lot at that moment, there wouldn't have been any ice. My father's presence bent the laws of probability and the possibility of ice suddenly became fact.

He trundled towards the store, his mind on the item he was looking for. He didn't know there was ice until he'd already stepped on it.

If you've ever seen a drunken Ukrainian folk dancer imitating traditional Russian dancing while on a cruise ship in the North Sea during a terrible storm, you have some idea of what my father looked like at that moment.

Both legs went airborne. Both arms windmilled in opposite directions. He twisted, he turned, he flew into the air with all the grace of a cow thrown by a transport truck impact. He had time to yell, which made us look up and see his danse macabre, which culminated in a tremendous face-plant right there in the middle of the Radio Shack parking lot.

He lay there for a moment while we laughed at his expense. We knew he was fine when he said, "Whoa crap!" and started brushing bits of ashphalt off his cheeks. So of course, we laughed harder.

But as I've said before, Karma is one mean-spirited bitch.

To be continued...
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Next Story: The Only Banana Peel in the Entire Valley

Previous Story: Golf - With My Mom
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Golf - With My Mom

2007-05-27T16:46:00.000-05:00

Yesterday's Post reminded me about golfing with my mom when I was in high school. My guidance counsellor got me into this summer program where we got to learn something 'for fun'. For reasons beyond my ken, I chose to take 'Photography' and 'Golf & Archery'.

That's right I chose 'Stand in a dark closet with dangerous chemicals' and 'Swing metal clubs & Shoot arrows while trying not to kill anyone'. Why someone didn't call a doctor and put me on suicide watch I will never know.

The photography part turned out OK. Only a few of my pictures came out though. Turns out I can use a camera, I just can't develop film without starting a fire. I had no idea developer fumes were flammable. Anyway nobody got hurt and they didn't press charges so a good time was had by all.

The archery part turned out to be horribly boring. Our arrows had no points. What's the point of an arrow with no point? Wait, what the hell did I just say? Oh, never mind. They made us shoot pointless arrows into soft foam targets. Where's the fun in that? How can you have adventure without danger?

The real highlight of the summer courses was the golf. After two weeks of intensive training I thought I was Tiger Woods. I actually looked up the schedule for the Canadian Open. I wanted to play some golf. But first I had to find someone who would golf with me. Nobody was interested, so for my first real golf game I had to go with my mom.

Stop laughing, dammit.

We decided to try nine holes at Satellite Golf out in Stoney Creek. Satellite Golf was (and still is) the cheapest golf course and driving range in the entire Golden Horseshoe. I think a small bucket of balls for the range is a dollar, and if you don't have a driver, they'll lend you a beat up club with yellow paint all over it so you won't steal it. The club girl however is staggeringly hot, so the place is always busy, all season long. Go figure.

Our first game went so slowly we had to keep letting people play through while we searched the rough for our balls. I lost at least six balls in the lake. I lost one ball in a tree. It went up, but it never came down. I guess gravity was off getting a beer from the hot club girl.

The last two holes though were the most exciting. On the eighth hole I drove my shot so hard it went over the fence and reached the highway. It bounced down the road, where it hit a gravel truck and began ricocheting between the vehicles. It stayed in the air for at least half a minute, until it got caught in the grill of a gasoline truck and was lost from sight.

I thought I wouldn't be able to top that, but I was wrong. On the last hole, less than a hundred yards from the pin, I again used too much club and overshot. The ball sailed neatly over the green, across the fence into the parking lot and went through the Satellite Golf sign. It's not my fault the wood was rotten. I don't see why they got so upset. If the sign says Satellite Goof now, so what?

Philistines.
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Next Story: The Only Patch of Ice in the Entire Parking Lot

Previous Story: Window Cleaning Again - Now With More Golf
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Window Cleaning Again, Now With More Golf

2007-05-26T10:53:00.000-05:00

Two years ago, George asked me to help him with a house job. He doesn't normally take house jobs so I was curious. This house backed onto a river, so the architect had cleverly filled the entire rear wall of the house with windows. The slope of the land made using scaffolding or ladders virtually impossible, so we had to disassemble the windows from the inside of the house, bring them in to the kitchen and clean them there. Very time consuming.

We finally got the hard part done and went around to all the fixed windows we'd left for last. One section was the laundry room. George was cleaning the inside of the laundry room windows and I was cleaning the outside. I began cleaning the window behind the clothes dryer when I noticed a bee in front of my face.

I stood still, figuring he'd eventually wander off if I didn't bother him. Then I saw a second bee. Great. I slowly looked down. The dryer vent between my legs was swarming with bees. I guess they'd been hiding inside the vent and when I got too close they'd come out to see if I posed a threat. Maybe they thought I was a bear.

I moved backwards very slowly, careful to make only smooth, gentle motions. George looked at me through the window like I was nuts. He came outside and asked me what was wrong. I said, "Bees." George turned green and fled. "Forget those windows, we're not doing anything where there's bees." he said.

Dealing with bug carcasses, bird excrement, spiders, webs, egg sacs, mud, dust, dirt, cement, paint, mortar, glue, gum, spit, vomit, urine, ketchup, eggs, and blood is bad enough. Dealing with bees is not in my contract. You have to draw the line somewhere.

So George and I went for coffee while doing the infamous Mohawk Ford Upper Showroom job this week. (Turns out George uses a fifteen foot stepladder and takes a half size extension pole up with him to reach the glass. Clever.) While we were sitting there he mentioned golf and we started telling each other golf stories.

One time George played golf with Bob, Liana's grandfather (who I've mentioned in earlier posts) and they had a grand time. They were shooting uphill on one hole and they both shot their balls over the hill and off the fairway into the rough. They climbed the hill and George got to the top first. He started laughing. He laughed so hard he fell down and Bob though he was nuts. "What's the matter with you George?" George replied, "Bob, if you can find your ball I'll give you ten dollars." Bob raised an eyebrow. He got to the top of the hill and looked.

Just beyond the edge of the rough were thousands of golf balls. They'd shot their balls onto the back end of the driving range.
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Next Story: Golf - With My Mom

Previous Story: Window Cleaning With George - Episode One
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Window Cleaning With George - Episode One

2007-05-25T10:29:00.000-05:00

I missed posting on Wednesday because I was helping my friend George do a major window cleaning job. Bobcat built a new facility in Stoney Creek and George got the contract to do the post-construction cleaning. Post-construction window cleaning is the hardest and most time consuming kind of window job, because the windows are covered in spatters of cement, mortar, drywall mud, paint etc. You have to literally scrape the windows inch by inch with a razor blade and then wash them at least twice to get them clean. You also have to detail the window frames, which are usually covered in glue and caulking as well.

Why would anyone ever want to do a post-construction initial window cleaning job? Because you charge at least three times the normal rate to do it. Moolah!

I started working with George years ago because he wanted to go on vacation and didn't have anyone to run the business for him. His son had gotten married and moved away and couldn't help him any more. So I volunteered. I spent a month learning the basics and then George took off to England for a month, his first vacation in a long time. He left me a detailed list of which jobs to do on which days, along with billing and collection paperwork. He left nothing to chance, every step was laid out for me. As Scotty said in Star Trek III, "A Chimpanzee and two trainees could run her."

Everything was fine until Wednesday. On the list was "Mohawk Ford - Showroom Outside" followed by the address. Clear enough. The showroom at Mohawk Ford is two stories high. Twenty feet of plate glass surrounds three sides of the showroom. There is a bottom section of glass and a top section of glass. George and I hadn't done the top section of glass when we were together and the list didn't specify so I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to do it or not. I brilliantly decided that it would be better to err on the side of caution and go ahead and do the top section.

My regular readers and friends will know that I am not a ladder person. I have since learned how to use ladders safely, but back then I had no idea what I was doing. The problem was this: How to reach the upper plates of glass? There were cars parked three feet away from the showroom so using a full-sized ladder was out because the cars made the angle bad. The stepladder I had was too short. I decided to use the 15-foot aluminum ladder.

This was a tremendous mistake. The only way I could get close enough to reach the upper plates was to gently rest the top of the ladder against the glass. It was a nightmare. I had to reach way off the ladder and pray the whole time that the glass wouldn't break. It was a vastly stupid thing to do. But I got it done, somehow.

Afterwards I asked George's daughter to ask him about it when he called her form England. She relayed the message, "Don't do the upper glass!" I was relieved. When George got back and found out what I'd done he was shocked. To this day he still shudders in horror when he remembers it.

Last year, George wanted a Wednesday off so he asked me to do his rounds. On the list was "Mohawk Ford - Showroom Outside". Next to the line was a small piece of folded paper taped to the page that said, "Open this." It folded out into a very long banner that read, in big bold letters, "DO THE LOWER GLASS ONLY. DO NOT DO THE UPPER GLASS."

That George, what a kidder.
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Next Story: Window Cleaning Again - Now With More Golf

Previous Story: Commmunication - The Keep Two a Shabby Family Live
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Communication - The Keep Two a Shabby Family Live

2007-05-24T17:08:00.000-05:00

Or the key to a happy family life, depending on how you look at it.

Just now Dad asked me to close the vents downstairs so we can try our brand new central air conditioning. I was sure I heard him say, "Use your tongue!" But what he'd actually said was, "Use your thumbs", but he pronounces "thumbs" like "tum", hence the confusion. Those of you who are wondering what the hell thumbs have to do with closing vents, are just beginning to appreciate the layers of confusion that exist in our home. See, it's like The Davinci Code, first you have figure what language it is, then you have to unscramble it, then you have to decide what was really being said.

My life is a second rate imitation of a Dan Brown novel combined with a perpetual Laurel and Hardy episode. Maybe a little Backdraft too, for the fire parts.

Suffice it to say, my Dad could reduce Dr. Robert Langdon to tears with a single sentence. You remember the party game where one person whispers something into someones ear and it goes around until "James likes to eat ice cream in bed" becomes "Kill the Pope, spend the money and Fred lost his underwear"? High comedy. My father can do that magically, without the big chain of inebriated teenagers adding extra flavour to the message.

One time he asked me, "Jewansome nood-lee schnitzel-puss?". I don't know what's scarier, that he called me "Schnitzel-puss" or that I understood EXACTLY what he'd meant.

Just now he asked me to check if the compressor was working. Our new air conditioner is so far not working. YAY. And Dad just spent ten minutes trying to explain to me where the new air conditioning cutoff switch is. I'm going downstairs...

Grand. The air is definitely not working. It's now 26 degrees in here and climbing. Dad's going to call the furnace guy.

I'm sure he'll tell them, "Gift barn art marks not jerking hot!"

Somehow, they'll figure it out.
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Next Story: Window Cleaning With George - Episode One

Previous Story: Barbecue Tips For the Insane
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Barbecue Tips For the Insane

2007-05-22T20:38:00.000-05:00

In keeping with the flavour of yesterday's post, I'm now going to tell one of my favorite barbecue stories ever. Surprisingly, this one isn't a family story, this one happened to my old neighbor, Mr. Topazoglu, whose son we tried to kill repeatedly when we were kids.

One time Greg and I played with his Space Lego's for so long that we ended up with a bad case of cabin fever and had to go outside and blow off some steam. So we were whipping a ball or a stick or a rotary saw blade or something at each other, when the garage door opened.

Mr. Topazoglu emerged with an armload of barbecue paraphernalia. He wandered over to the barbecue and the first thing he did was turn on the gas. He checked to make sure the propane was flowing by sticking his head in the barbecue and taking a deep breath. Then he closed the lid and looked for the lighter.

Apparently he'd forgotten to bring it with him, so he wandered back into the garage to get it. Of course, he left the gas on while he searched. After several minutes of rattling and griping, he still hadn't found it so he went back in the house to look for it some more.

Greg and I crossed the street and stood on the neighbour's property, at a safe distance from his house, our dangerous game forgotten. Mr. Topazoglu came back out, lighter in hand, grinning madly. We sat down and covered our ears. We readied ourselves to watch Greg's dad die.

He opened the barbecue lid and coughed. Why he didn't pass out, we'll never know. He bent down, got the lighter into the little hole and pressed the button. Nothing happened. He got up, stuck his face in the barbecue and took another deep breath. Satisfied that the gas was still flowing, he crouched down below the barbecue and stuck the lighter in again.

It was the act of crouching down below the barbecue that saved his life. Because he'd opened the lid, the propane and air had finally mixed to the point of flammability and were just waiting for a spark. Mr. Topazoglu gleefully supplied the need flame.

There was a terrible ghastly noise.

A giant ball of flame erupted over the barbecue, ending in a huge mushroom cloud. After the cloud dissipated, Mr. Topazoglu stood up, held his hand over the now lit barbecue and smiled. "Ah very good!", he exclaimed.

We had burgers that night. They were indeed, "very good."
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Next Story: Communication - The Keep Two a Shabbly Family Live

Previous Story: My Dad Could Mess Up 'Shake 'n Bake'
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My Dad Could Mess Up 'Shake 'n Bake'

2007-05-21T16:36:00.000-05:00

And he frequently does. I have seen my father ruin a perfectly good sandwich, screw up scrambled eggs and destroy a bagel while trying to get it into the toaster. What he does to meat loaf defies explication and is inexcusable. His superpower, the ability to ruin food just by being near it, would be forgivable if he stayed out of the kitchen. Unfortunately it's his favorite place in the whole world. Guess what his one and only hobby is.

Yeah, he cooks.

Last month I wrote about how much I love playing Golf despite the fact that I'm a really bad golfer. So I understand. What I don't understand is where he gets his crazy ideas from.

Like the time I caught him cutting up green peppers and bakers chocolate to put in the Chili Con Carne. I don't care if it works for Martha Stewart, it's doesn't work when dad tries it. Or the time the 'Shake 'n Bake' just wouldn't stick to the chicken pieces so he laid them in the baking dish and poured the crumbs over the top. Or the time he redecorated the kitchen while boiling a cabbage.

I walk in to find a huge uncovered pot on the stove, with a large uncut cabbage sitting in it. The pot had been full of several cans of V-8 juice, but he'd been boiling it so long the liquid had reduced and turned into a sludgy red sauce. Where had the excess liquid gone? It had evaporated... onto the ceiling. The kitchen was covered in a thin patina of tomato goop. Everything in the house smelled of boiled cabbage, including my freshly dry-cleaned suit. Brilliant.

Mom used to be a good cook, but she's been hanging around my dad too long and you know what they say about bad association. A few winters ago she decided she was going to have roasted chestnuts. So I went out and got her a big bag of fresh chestnuts. She arranged them on a baking sheet, got the oven fired up and put them in to roast. Then she sat down with a book and completely forgot about them.

When tendrils of smoke started sneaking out from the stove door, she remembered. She jumped up, opened the stove door and pulled the tray of fiery hot chestnuts out. With her bare hands. She screamed and dropped the sheet. Hitting the ground was too much for the already overstressed chestnuts, they exploded on impact. Chestnut meat shot everywhere.

We managed to clean up some of it, but when mom's housekeeper arrived, she asked her to please clean the ceiling fan in the kitchen. The girl looked up at the fan and gasped. The ceiling fan was dotted with stuck bits of exploded chestnut. I have no idea how she managed to get it clean, but she did.

Someday I'm going to come home and find out that my parents have burned the house down... while eating ice cream.
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Previous Story: More Squirrel Madness - Indoor Rodent Sports
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More Squirrel Madness - Indoor Rodent Sports

2007-05-20T15:09:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I wrote about how squirrels aren't stupid, they're just thrill seekers. Sometimes they take their love for extreme sports too far.

Once, when I worked at the Hospital, the daytime parking lot attendant went on vacation. I volunteered to fill in for her, if only to get a nice chunk of steady days and get off rotating shifts. It was the lot at the farthest end of the hospital property on Poplar avenue, with lots of trees and very little traffic. It was a no-brainer. Except for the squirrels.

The lady who worked the booth kept a large bag of whole peanuts inside, on top of the computer. She entertained herself by throwing out one peanut at a time and watching several dozen hungry squirrels fight for it. There was this one squirrel who used to win most of the time. He was very large and grey, with scars on his face and belly and he was missing half his tail.

I was sitting in the booth, ignoring the squirrels demands, when along came Mr. Grey, the street fighter. He stood on the curb opposite the booth and glared at me. Apparently I was too stupid to realize that the peanuts in the booth belonged to him and he was going to make sure I knew it. He ran up to the booth and chattered at me. I ignored him, just to see what would happen.

He was miffed. He jumped up onto the ledge outside the window and bitched at me for a few minutes. I was enjoying it so much, I decided to continue ignoring him to see what else he would try. I know now that you should never underestimate a squirrel who wants your nuts. Ignoring him was a bad mistake.

Keep in mind it's a tiny booth, only enough room for one person sitting down or two skinny people standing up. Mr. Grey was at my left hand, less than six inches from my arm, alternately screeching at me then looking a the bag of peanuts on top of the computer. Eventually hunger overrode his fear.

He jumped. He leaped inside the booth, flew over the computer and dropped into the bag of nuts. I was alarmed. He jammed a few nuts into his cheeks and sprung out of the bag. He landed on the computer. He started sliding down the cover and freaking out. Just before the snarling ball of angry claws landed in my lap, he performed a perfect side-leap and flug himself out the window.

Into the path of an oncoming car.

He managed to avoid getting run over but some of his nuts weren't so lucky. After the car passed he came back and scraped up what was left, chattering indignantly. Tough little guy.

I made sure to leave some peanuts out for him every day after that.
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Next Story: My Dad Could Mess Up 'Shake 'n Bake'

Previous Story: Squirrels Aren't Stupid, They're Just Thrill Seekers
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'Popular Fiction' Hits the Technorati Top 100,000

2007-05-20T14:50:00.000-05:00

Thanks to you, loyal readers and the many people who linked here, 'Popular Fiction' is now ranked 99,788 out of the estimated 71 million blogs tracked by Technorati. Here's a picture...

Follow this link for more information about 'Popular Fiction' at Technorati. Clicking on the Authority icon or text reveals the ranking and shows who linked here.

Thank you for your support!

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Next News: Vote for May's Post of the Month

Previous News: Found 20 Light Years Away - The New Earth
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Squirrels Are Not Stupid, They're Just Thrill Seekers

2007-05-19T10:10:00.000-05:00

Dad is not a fan of the neighborhood squirrels. We have a giant maple tree in our front yard. Half the wildlife on our block lives in our tree. One of the squirrels who lives in the tree is into extreme sports.

'Flingy' starts his run at the far end of the roof. When we hear little claws galloping overhead, one of us goes to the living room window, because we know what's coming. He hurls himself off the end of the roof towards the big tree, arms and legs spread wide, chattering in terror. He usually makes it to the thin top branch, which bends halfway to the ground under the impact from his weight. Sometimes he misses the top branch and hits one of the less forgiving lower branches. But he's never fallen the ground, yet. Crazy little guy.

'Schwartz' is my father's nemesis. He's black (hence the name) he's huge and he has no fear whatsoever. One time, Dad decided to get rid of Schwartz using one of those humane walk-in traps, filled with nuts and peanut butter. Irresistible for a squirrel. Mom called us to the window to come see. The squirrel was standing on it's hind legs, pressed against the side of the trap, it's little arm stuck through the mesh, reaching for the goodies. He completely avoided the trap door and reached for the prize through the side. Clever little guy.

Once, Dad came home, got out of the car, and there was Schwartz, standing on the edge of the roof. Dad snarled at the squirrel, but he didn't run away. The little creep actually yelled at Dad and shook his little fists at him. I have never seen anything like it. This half-pound furball was actually taunting my very large, squirrel-hating father. That guy had guts.

Dad kept trying though. We finally trapped all the squirrels and took them far away to a park with lots of trees and plenty of food. Everything was quiet. Until spring came and a new squirrel family moved in. 'Flingy' was one of them. You just can't win.

P.S. I have another squirrel story, I'll post it tomorrow.
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Next Story: More Squirrel Madness - Indoor Rodent Sports

Previous Story: They Called Me Ink Mouth
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They Called Me "Ink Mouth"

2007-05-18T11:43:00.000-05:00

By Grade Six, I had developed a pretty severe fixation. I liked putting school supplies in my mouth.

Pencils were my favorite. I would slowly bite the yellow off the pencil until the whole thing was a mass of exposed wood, full of teeth marks. When I couldn't find a pencil, a pen was a great substitute. I used to love how a Bic pen lid would get all hot if you chewed on it. Then there were the rulers. I chewed the end off so many rulers back then, like some kind of crazy beaver.

By now it should be clear to you that, back then, I wasn't quite right in the head.

In grade six I also started losing my eyesight. One of my teachers, Mr. Reimann, noticed right away that I had problems paying attention, so he moved me to the front of the class. One day he asked to answer a question he'd written on the board and when I got it completely wrong, he didn't react the way I expected. He said nothing to me, but he called my parents and told them he suspected I'd need glasses. Smart guy.

Mr. Reimann was also responsible for my nickname from grades six to eight. One time he asked a question and for some crazy reason I was actually paying attention and knew the answer, so I put up my hand. He pointed at me and said, "Yes, Ink Mouth?" I answered the question and he said, "You're right! Now go to the bathroom, look in the mirror and then clean yourself up." Turns out the Bic pen I'd been enjoying had burst and I hadn't noticed. My lips and chin were stained blue. Everyone had a good laugh at my expense and the name stuck.

I was the king of detention in grade six too. Mr. Reimann handed out detentions like candy. My mind was on another planet most of the time back then (how is that different from now?) and I got caught daydreaming several times a day.

The highlight of that year came during the last month of school. It was the end of the day, the bell rang and we all started getting up to leave. Mr. Reimann said, "Where do you think you're going, Ink Mouth?" I pulled my head out of the clouds long enough to answer coherently. I told him I didn't have a detention that day and was going home. He went over to the detention list and checked. "I'm certain you have a detention. You have to. You always have a detention." He went through the list very carefully and discovered that I was right.

"Everyone!", he shouted. "Stop, don't leave. Fuhringer here really doesn't have a detention!" There was a stunned silence. "I think we should give him a round of applause." The class happily clapped and cheered. It was great.

When I got home, my mother said, "You're home early." I just smiled.
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Next Story: Squirrels Aren't Stupid. They're Just Thrill Seekers

Previous Story: That's Not How We Use Our Crayons
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That's Not How We Use Our Crayons

2007-05-16T20:58:00.000-05:00

I've been dreading this one but it's time.

Now, when a kid acts up in school they prescribe Ritalin or send him for counselling. When I was a kid, acting up got me The Strap. I wish I were kidding. I really do.

Grade Three was the worst grade ever. My teacher was Mrs. Jewel, a bitter, exhausted old woman years past retirement age. She was one of those rare people who genuinely did not like children. With my wild imagination, four-second attention span and big fat mouth I was her worst nightmare.

One time we were given crayons, paper and an assignment. Mrs. Jewel told us to take the first letter of our name and draw a picture of something using that letter. The first letter of my name is "T". I decided to be clever and draw a Tractor with a muddy Tire. Nice and simple.

The tractor was pretty awful, I've never been much of a visual artist. The tire however was awesome. First I drew the outline of a big, exaggerated tire. Then I sat there for a while, trying to figure out how to get mud on the tire. Going outside and collecting mud was out. I didn't have enough brown crayon for the amount of mud I wanted to draw.

I held two crayons in my hand, which sparked a memory. I had seen a drawing somewhere of two crayons taped together, used to make a cool design. I thought about it and reasoned that if two crayons were cool, all the crayons would be the pinnacle of coolness. The result would be an awful mess, much like mud. Perfect!

I grabbed my crayons and started stuffing them in my fist. I got as many as I could hold, at least a dozen different colours, all packed together like cord wood. I got the points down on paper and began muddying the tire. It was great. It looked like crap but I was delighted. I mashed and whirled my crayon-laden fist over the page until the tire was obscured. It was heaven.

Something made me look up. Mrs. Jewel was standing there watching me. I smiled, completely oblivious to her displeasure. She grabbed my hand and took the crayons away. She looked down at me and in a voice reserved for Doctors who have to tell parents their child is dead, said, "That's not how we use our crayons."

I tried to explain but she didn't want to hear it. She looked at my drawing. "What's the first letter of your name?", she asked. "T?", I replied. She pointed at the picture. "Where's the 'T'?" I pointed at the tractor and said, "Right there! See? It's a T-ractor. With a muddy T-ire. I used 'T' twice! Isn't that great?"

She looked at me like I was retarded and said, "You were supposed to use the letter 'T' in your drawing. The shape of the letter 'T'. Your drawing is all wrong. There's no 'T' in it." I was upset. "Yes there is, there are two 'T''s in it. Look!" Her eyes narrowed. "Get out of my class. Go to Mr. Quinn's office, NOW."

I went to Mr. Quinn's office. What choice did I have? I was eight years old. Mr. Quinn was not happy to see me. "Do you know why Mrs. Jewel sent you to my office?", he asked. "No?", I replied. "What do you mean 'No'? Are you being smart with me?". I said, "No, I don't know why I'm here."

Mr. Quinn actually turned purple. I got the strap. It was unpleasant.

When grade four started, Mr. Quinn wasn't there anymore and I never got the strap again. I also found out that Mrs. Jewel had been killed in a car accident over the summer. It was the first time in my life I felt relieved upon hearing that someone had died. When I realized how wrong that was I cried like a baby.

But I was still relieved. And I never got the strap again.
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Next Story: They Called Me "Ink Mouth"

Previous Story: I've Got a Rip in My Pants Again
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I've Got a Rip in My Pants Again

2007-05-15T13:29:00.000-05:00

Over the weekend, a rip developed in my jeans, turning them into Peek-a-boo Pants. Now I have a dilemma. Do I fix them and be modest or do I leave them as is and be cool. (Get it? "Cool"? Oh, never mind.)

My regular readers can probably guess how dangerous I am with a sharp object in my hand, like a needle or a pair of scissors. To say that I am bad when it comes to sewing is like saying that Uwe Boll is bad when it comes to film making. It doesn't convey the full sense of the badness. Whole flavours of awful are missing from that statement.

So when we were forced to sew something in mandatory "Home Economics" class, I chose to make pyjama bottoms. I figured no one would ever see me wearing them, so no matter how badly they turned out, I'd look OK. I chose flannel as my fabric. Off-white flannel with purple and rose striping. (God I was dumb when I was a teenager.)

They say you should measure twice and cut once. I measured fifteen times and cut twice. Fortunately I'd thought to buy lots of extra fabric. I followed the pattern and worked painstakingly for days and days. Finally my tailoring masterpiece was complete. I tried them on.

They actually fit, but one leg was somehow shorter than the other. I took them off and measured them. Both legs were exactly the same length. I put them back on. One leg was shorter. Great, I'd created Twilight Zone pyjamas. And they got really hot and itchy at night.

Years later I remembered those pyjamas fondly while repairing a rip in my suit pants. I had learned much by then and was actually capable of invisible mending. I slowly fixed my pants and the seam was as close to perfect as I'd ever done. I was so proud of myself. I turned the pants over to see how the seam looked from the outside. Actually, they wouldn't turn over. Something was wrong.

I had sewn my pants to my pants.

To clarify: I had sewn my suit pants to the jeans I was wearing, while I'd stiched away with them in my lap.

And you wonder why I'm reluctant to fix the new rip in my jeans?
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Next Story: That's Not How We Use Our Crayons

Previous Story: Adventures in Cuba - The Bus Driver From Hell
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This Just In - Found 20 light years away: the New Earth

2007-05-14T11:13:00.000-05:00

Quote - "It's got the same climate as Earth, plus water and gravity. A newly discovered planet is the most stunning evidence that life - just like us - might be out there.

Above a calm, dark ocean, a huge, bloated red sun rises in the sky - a full ten times the size of our Sun as seen from Earth. Small waves lap at a sandy shore and on the beach, something stirs..."

Found 20 light years away: the New Earth

The article is sensational and speculative, but if you ignore the hype, the actual data itself is really cool. A planet in the "Goldilocks Zone", with temperatures between zero and 40c (32-102f)?

Fascinating!
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Adventures in Cuba - The Bus Driver from Hell

2007-05-14T09:46:00.000-05:00

Imagine a man with no fear of death. A man with no natural sense of self-preservation. A man who truly does not care whether he lives or dies.

Now imagine that man is your bus driver.

Dad, Grandpa and I took a side trip while in Cuba once. A bus trip from our resort to the historic city of Santiago de Cuba. The highlight of the trip was The Castillio del Morro.

We clambered into the 1950's Russian-made rusted-out bear trap. It was painted blood red. It sounded like a tank with asthma. Amazingly though it had very comfortable seats and the air conditioning worked. We were so happy to get out of the heat, we didn't care what the bus looked like.

The bus driver however would have frightened Stephen King. He looked deceptively harmless. He was short, brown and dark haired, wearing a breezy white shirt and shorts. We called him Pedro. I don't think that was his name but he didn't seem to mind. He didn't seem to mind anything. Including physics, traffic laws or respect for life.

The first clue that we'd entered the Twilight Zone was his smile. Think Hannibal Lecter meets Barney. He caressed the steering wheel as if it were a knife blade. He hit the accelerator with all his strength and we took off like the Space Shuttle. For the first mile, he didn't look out the windshield. He looked back at us, his victims and grinned.

Pedro drove the bus like a Formula One car. Every turn was taken at maximum speed. Every pedestrian, bicycle or animal was irrelevant. He never used the horn, yet somehow people seemed to know we were coming and got off the road. At one point we had to cross a narrow bridge and Pedro played chicken with the oncoming traffic. Cars drove backwards on the bridge to get out of his way.

After a dozen near-misses, we stopped counting and resigned ourselves to the fact that our driver was insane. It was actually enjoyable after that, kind of like a rollercoaster. We treated it like a thrill ride and threw our hands into the air when he went over a bump or screamed whenever he took a hard turn. Pedro never stopped grinning the entire time.

Finally we got to The Castillio del Morro and poured out of the bus. We were so happy. We went up to the entrance of the Castle, ready for our tour. There was a large sign in front of the door, and we asked the tour guide what it meant.

It said, "Castle closed for lunch."

It's been there for over four hundred years and the moment we show up, it's closed. Brilliant planning. We had to make a decision. We could wait for the Castle to re-open or we could get back on the bus.

We chose to wait. Pedro just grinned.
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Next Story: I've Got a Rip in My Pants Again

Previous Story: Pillar of Fire - It Runs in the Family
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Pillar of Fire - It Runs in the Family

2007-05-12T10:43:00.000-05:00

Fire. It can save your life or it can kill you. But it will always entertain. Recently I wrote three stories about my experiences with fire. A 'Fire Trilogy' of sorts:

It's Not On My Resume But I Am a Skilled Pyromaniac
Nothings Wrong, I'm Just Watering The Patio
The Conclusion of the Fire Trilogy (For Now)

The story isn't over though. There's a prequel, one that explains how I became Darth... what? Oh wrong trilogy, sorry.

When Dad was telling his Hungarian funeral stories a few weeks back, he talked about some of the outrageous things he got into as a kid. He lived in Hungary between the end of WWII and the Hungarian Revolution in '56. Life in Hungary during those years was scary and dangerous. Also, they didn't have X-Box and Collectible Card games hadn't been invented yet, so they had to (gasp) play outside and use their imaginations.

Unfortunately, being surrounded by war, their imaginations ran to, well... war. One of their favorite pastimes was hunting for abandoned munitions. Artillery shells were their favorite. They would bang the shell casings together to loosen them (It's a miracle I was ever born) then unscrew them and remove the detonators. Apparently the detonators are tremendous fun when ignited. They also collected the gunpowder from the shells and carried it around in their pockets or made their own makeshift fireworks with them.

One time they hit the jackpot. They found an abandoned Russian ammunition dump hidden in the side of a hill under a camouflage tarp. They collected bags and bags of gunpowder, as much as they all could carry. But someones dad showed up and freaked out. You know how unreasonable parents can be when kid's are just trying to have fun. He wasn't afraid for their lives because of the gunpowder though. He was afraid of what the Russian soldiers would do if they found a bunch of kids carrying gunpowder.

So he told them to collect up what they'd found and take it out back into a field behind the town. They stacked bags and bags of gunpowder together in a huge pile. Once they'd moved all the gunpowder, he told them to go away while he destroyed it. He decided the best way to get rid of half a ton of gunpowder quickly was to burn it. He lit a match and threw it in the pile.

Dad, while telling the story said, "Da pillar of fire da Israelites had leaving Egypt was a veak bonfire compared to da pillar of fire from that gunpowder." Mr. Brilliants plan to discreetly dispose of the stuff resulted in a beacon of flame that could be seen three towns away. The Russian soldiers noticed. Everyone noticed. It was glorious.

After I heard that story, I didn't feel bad about my own experiments with fire anymore. Now I know who I got my pyromaniac leanings from. My Dad, the firebug.

P.S. Guess what dad became when he grew up? A Combustion Technician. Go figure.

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Next Story: Adventures in Cuba - The Bus Driver From Hell

Previous Story: Everybody Wants to be Famous
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Everybody Wants to be Famous

2007-05-11T09:47:00.000-05:00

Everybody wants their fifteen minutes of fame. Even my Dad. Yesterday he said to me, "Hey, you want a joke for your blog?". I was alarmed. Dad's sense of humour can be somewhat unrefined.

To illustrate: We were watching "House". It was the episode where House mercilessly plays practical jokes on Wilson. At the end of the episode, House's cane breaks and he falls to the floor. Wilson says, "I guess someone filed halfway through your cane while you were sleeping." and walks away. My Dad laughed for at least fifteen minutes over that. It was funny, but a crippled guy falling down because someone cut his cane shouldn't have inspired that much laughter. OK, fine. It was really funny.

So Dad told me this joke:

A Bureaucrat is driving through the country when he comes across a Farmer with some sheep. He stops and talks with the Farmer. "Nice sheep." he says. "Yep" replies the Farmer. The Bureaucrat challenges the farmer to a bet. "I'll bet you I can guess the exact number of sheep you have. If I can, you have to give me one." The Farmer thinks about it for a minute, then says, "Deal."

The Bureaucrat says, "Eighty-seven."

The Farmer is stunned. "Wow," he says, "that's exactly right, Mister. How'd you do that?" The Bureaucrat smiles and says, "In my line of work, you know how to find out these things. The Bureaucrat looks through the flock, picks up a sheep and carries it to his car.

The Farmer says, "Mister, will you give me a chance to win my sheep back?" The Bureaucrat says, "Sure!" The Farmer challenges him to a bet. "If I can guess what you do for a living, I get my sheep back plus one hundred dollars." The Bureaucrat thinks about it for a minute, then says, "Deal."

The Farmer says, "You're a Bureaucrat."

The Bureaucrat is stunned. "Wow," he says, "that's exactly right. How did you know?"

The Farmer replies, "Well, first put down my dog and then I'll explain."

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Next Story: Pillar of Fire - It Runs in the Family

Previous Story: The Top Five Fuhringer Family Fishing Trip Disasters
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Popular Fiction Hits 100 Visitors

2007-05-11T09:17:00.000-05:00

On Thursday, 'Popular Fiction' was read by 100 unique visitors. This was a new record.

I'd like to thank Darren Rowse of Problogger for running the 'Top Five Group Writing Project', for which I wrote the story, The Top Five Fuhringer Family Fishing Trip Disasters. This project attracted several new visitors and I look forward to participating in future projects.

I'd like to thank Bill Harris of Dubious Quality for his positive comments about 'Popular Fiction' and the link, which will hopefully also attract new visitors.

Finally I'd like to thank you, the readers for regularly visiting 'Popular Fiction' and inviting new readers. Your efforts are greatly appreciated.

Thanks and Enjoy!
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Next News: Found 20 Light Years Away: The New Earth

Previous News: Videos of Water Flash Freezing
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The Top Five Fuhringer Family Fishing Trip Disasters

2007-05-09T12:06:00.000-05:00

Our family loves to fish. Maybe it's because there are 250,000 lakes and 100,000 kilometers of rivers in Ontario, where we live. Maybe it's because fishing is a great excuse to sit in a boat drinking beer and eating artery-clogging sandwiches. Whatever the reason, every male member of the Fuhringer family goes fishing at every available opportunity.

My cousin Leilani nearly tore the family apart when she held her wedding on the opening day of pickerel season. My cousin Karl stayed right to the end of the reception Saturday night in Hamilton and was standing in hip waders in the Moira river in Belleville before dawn on Sunday.

I think they're all nuts. To prove it, I will now share with you the "The Top Five Fuhringer Family Fishing Trip Disasters". After reviewing the evidence, you will understand why no one in my family should ever go fishing again.

5) The One That Got Away

I'm not talking about the fish we lost when dad threw the fish stringer back in the water before remembering to attach the stringer to the boat. I'm not even talking about the fish we lost the time the stringer got caught in the propeller (it was spectacularly messy). I'm talking about the classic fishing story about the 'big one', the one that was almost caught but got away. "It was THIS big!" That story.

I hold the dubious honour of having lost "The Best Pickerel Ever(Tm)".

I was standing on the edge of the Moira River in Belleville during the height of the pickerel run. There were fisherman EVERYWHERE. We were shoulder to shoulder from the dam all the way to the mouth of the river. Most of the guys there that day were serious sport fisherman. I was the guy who least wanted to be there. So of course, I got a bite from Jaws.

I have never seen a fishing line run out so fast. Everyone on the banks lowered their lines and reeled in out of respect when they saw my line snap tight over the river. Karl ran down the river in hip waders calling out instructions. When I locked the reel, the fish pulled me so hard I actually slid along the rocks at the river's edge. The guys on the bridge started shouting and pointing. When I started reeling in, my rod bent over from tip to handle. The fish turned and darted upstream, creating slack. I reeled for all I was worth. The line got higher and higher in the water.

A fish the size of a sofa broke the surface, flashing in the sunlight. Everyone stared in awed silence. Forget Jaws, I'd hooked Moby Dick.

The fish changed direction so fast I didn't have time to unlock my reel. The line went tight, then snapped like it was thread. A huge groan went up from the fishermen. One really old French guy said, "Dat dere were da biggest Pickerel I ever seen in my whole lifes dat one eh? Mon Dieu!"

My family never forgave me for losing it. I haven't been invited fishing again since.

4) Boat 1, Dad 0

Loading a small fishing boat is not rocket science. All you have to do is balance the boat. One time Dad was loading the boat, while standing in it. The boat was still tied to the dock. There was no danger. There were no obvious threats. No one knows exactly why he started to panic, but we do know it involved saving the lunch cooler. The boat tipped slightly to the left. Dad compensated, so it tipped to the right. He compensated again, it tipped even farther to the left. Then to the right. This went on until Dad lost control of the boat, which flung him bodily out into the water.

The boat settled. Dad came up sputtering. A little kid who'd watched the entire debacle from the dock looked down and asked him, "What are you doing down there?"

We were sure the kid was going to die.

3) Even the Fish Couldn't Stand the Smell

One time on a trip to Lake Temagami, my cousin James, my Dad and I were joined by our friend Dan. Dan is lactose intolerant and suffers from heinously bad gas. Dan's food supply that week consisted of one case of Diet Coke, one box of Melba Toast and a very large chub of dry salami. We listed to Weird Al Yankovic on the car stereo while Dan happily filled his intestines with chemical warfare agents, until dad had had enough of "Dis crazy Yugoslavian and his crazy music!" and switched to a good German station playing waltzes and polkas.

We got to the cabin on the lake and settled in for the night. We had no idea what was coming. We were lying in our beds when Dan started farting. "It stinks like da Devil's rectum in here!" my Dad said, sending us into fits of giggles and starting Dan on a new round of lethal flatulence. We settled down and figured that was the end of it.

We were wrong. A few minutes later he started passing gas in earnest. It just kept coming and coming. And it smelled hideous. Dad said, "Are you dying? Do we need to take you to da hospital?" This triggered more laughter and even more gas.

Everything settled down and it got quiet, the kind of quiet you can only get when you're on a lake in the wilderness. We relaxed. Dan suddenly shattered the tranquil night with a staccato barrage that went on longer than a German Opera. James and I lost it. Every time we thought it was finally over he'd come up with more.

Dad had had enough. He shouted, "Stop da farting! Stop it now. No farting, no laughing, we have to get up early in da morning for fishing. NO MORE FARTING! STOP LAUGHING."

The trip was ruined. Dad was miserable. I don't think we caught a thing the whole trip.

2) Water Snakes and Waterfalls

My mom has a serious, full-blown phobia of snakes. So of course, the last time she went fishing with us on The French River, we encountered a water snake.

Dad had this brilliant idea that there would be more fish above the waterfall, so we maneuvered the boat to the start of the rapids and dropped anchor. It was a great spot, until a curious water snake decided to visit our boat and check out what we'd brought for lunch. Mom panicked and started screaming and flailing an oar to keep it at bay. Dad pulled up the anchor. We began moving with the current. Dad couldn't get the engine started. The current got faster. The snake followed us down the river, staying just out of reach of Mom's oar.

Eventually Dad got the engine started and the snake realized he wasn't welcome so he swam off. We never did end up going over the falls, but it got dicey for a few minutes.

Mom hasn't been fishing since.

1) "I got shot."

My dad can end any conversation about fishing with this story. It trumps all other fishing stories. It's also not funny but I have to include it on this list because disasters just don't get worse than this one.

My Dad was born in Hungary during WWII. He managed to not get shot, despite the war. He escaped from behind the Iron Curtain in 1956 and managed to not get shot, despite the revolution, the Russians, etc. So it seems odd that when the bullets finally caught up with Dad, it was while he was fishing in New Brunswick.

Dad and his buddies had a limited grasp of conservation law when he first came to Canada, so to him it was nothing to illegally fish for salmon out of season. They caught a ton of fish, so they stopped for lunch. They sat together against a large tree, eating sandwiches and drinking beer.

That's when the two off-season deer hunters shot them. All three of them got hit. Dad ended up with two holes in one leg and three in the other.

(Recently, when Dad had his knee surgery the surgeon said, "Hey, you know you have a bullet in your leg? They left it in since it's right on the nerve and it's not causing him any problems.)

When they realized what they'd done, the two mighty hunters did the responsible thing. They ran, right into the arms of a ranger. They confessed and Dad and his buddies were transported to a local hospital for treatment. Since nobody died and everyone was technically guilty of a crime, no charges were laid.

My father survived the war only to be shot by morons while fishing. If that's not a clear sign to stay away from the water, I don't know what is.
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Previous Story: Things That Go "Bonk, Smash, Ouch!" In the Night
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Things That Go "Bonk, Smash, Ouch!" in the Night

2007-05-08T11:16:00.000-05:00

Spending the night at someone else's house is a classic setup for a comedy of errors.

My mother stayed at a friend's apartment while the friend was away on vacation. The most recent victim of the Scarborough Rapist had been attacked on the walkway right outside the apartment. Things were a little tense so my mom's friend kept a Louisville Slugger under her bed. The police warned single women to be vigilant.

So mom locked the windows and doors and went to bed. But something woke her up. She thought she'd heard music but wasn't sure if it was real or just a dream. So she shook herself awake and listened. After a few moments, the piano in the living room played a single note.

Mom grabbed the Louisville Slugger. The piano then played a single minor chord. Mom was certain that a psychotic killer had broken in and was playing the piano before he murdered her. She wasn't going down without a fight. She moved silently down the hallway, bat ready.

A discordant mishmash of demented noise erupted from the piano as mom made her final dash into the living room. A single green eye above the piano keys stared at her through the darkness. "Hey You", her friends one-eyed cat stood on the keys, playing a creepy dirge as he walked up and down the piano.

Hey You only had one eye, one ear and his mouth didn't close properly because of an injury he'd experienced as a kitten. He'd crawled up into the engine block of a car for warmth and someone had started the car. Despite the vet's protests, my mom's friend nursed the little monster back to health and he lived.

He didn't know he looked horrible. He was a very friendly and affectionate cat, always sneaking up and rubbing his gross half up against your leg or your cheek. His meows finished with a creepy trailing snort-whistle that usually sent people into fits of giggles when they heard him coming. And he liked to play the piano at night.

But my favorite story about staying overnight at someone else's house involved my dad. My parents and aunts and uncles and cousins all spent the night once at my grandparent's house. It was crowded and noisy and much wine was consumed. The adults staggered off to bed upstairs while the kids slept on the main floor.

Of course we talked and goofed around instead of sleeping, so we were awake when we heard my dad's distinctive lumbering walk overhead as he headed for the bathroom. Many minutes passed. Then we heard my mom go to the bathroom. We found out later she went to the bathroom to wake dad up, because he'd fallen asleep sitting on the can. So she goes back to bed and dad finishes up and suddenly we hear a loud thud. We froze.

A few seconds later there was a tremendous smashing noise. It turned out that dad, in his wine-induced fatigue, had forgotten he was not at home, so he turned right coming out of the bathroom instead of left. At my grandparent's house, the only thing to the right of the bathroom was a window and a huge flight of stairs, going down. My dad missed the stairs by a few inches, thanks to the four-inch post holding up the railing. that was the first noise. Then he fell on the floor in the hallway. That was the second noise.

According to mom, who had to revive him, dad had knocked himself unconcious when he hit the post. It probably saved his life though, since if he'd missed the post, he'd have fallen right down the long wooden stairway.

The next morning, everyone but my dad sat at breakfast, talking about the incident. Finally dad came downstairs and sat at the table. Everyone fell silent. "What?", he asked. My mother told him to go look in the mirror. He had a four inch stripe running down his head and face, in the shape of the post.

He had no idea how it got there.

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Next Story: The Top Five Fuhringer Family Fishing Trip Disasters

Previous Story: Electricity is Dangerous - Shocking Details Follow
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Electricity is Dangerous - Shocking Details Follow

2007-05-07T09:26:00.000-05:00

My first experience with electrocution happened when I was just a little kid. We were at an animal park, maybe Marineland or African Lion Safari. I loved the animals and wanted to be as close to them as possible. Especially the dangerous ones.

The lion enclosure was just too awesome for a little guy like me. I was shaking with excitement. I wanted to get closer so I put my tiny hand through the fence. There was a second fence further in and I grabbed it.

Then I started to cry because I thought my dad had hit me in the head. Dad insisted he hadn't touched me and when I explained what I'd been doing my parents started laughing. Yeah, my first electrocution and they laughed at me. High comedy.

When I was older, I had to do an assignment for school, which meant dragging out and setting up the electric typewriter. I maneuvered the ninety pound behemoth onto the top of my metal desk. Love those 80's metal desks, perfect conductors of electricity.

I climbed onto the the desk and reached for the only nearby plug, which was behind the metal back of the desk. I had to twist the cord to get it in the socket but it just wouldn't go all the way in. So I forced it.

My finger slipped and jammed between the tines on the plug. I distinctly remember biting my tongue and smashing against the wall as the electricity had a field day with all that metal, through the agency of my index finger.

But the best electrocution story goes to a dog. Liana's grandfather had a neighbor who had "The Perfect Lawn(Tm)". A local dog decided it was the most wonderfully groomed toilet he'd ever seen. The owner screamed at the dog, then screamed at it's owner, but every day the dog came back and made a deposit on his golf green.

The owner decided he'd fix the problem permanently. He got an extension cord, stripped it and attached it to a horseshoe. He put the horseshoe in the grass near the dog's favorite peeing spot. Then he watered the grass, plugged in the cord, and waited.

The dog came by as usual, positioned himself, lifted his leg and let out a stream. Liana's grandfather said, "That dog fired into the air like he'd been kicked by the Devil! You better believe he never went on that grass again, boy." Mean, but effective.

I'm glad I've never been electrocuted via a pee stream. (Fingers crossed.) I'd better stay away from the neighbour's grass.
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Next Story: Things That Go "Bonk, Smash, Ouch!" in the Night

Yesterday's Story: If I Could Talk to the Animals
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If I Could Talk to the Animals

2007-05-06T15:33:00.000-05:00

Actually I do talk to the animals, but they generally ignore me. Unless I'm holding a bag of Cheetos, then I'm their new best friend.

I've met some fascinating creatures including snakes, stingrays, moose and polar bears. I also met a sea urchin, but that was unpleasant. Oh yeah, I met some bats once too. Ironically, the wild animals and I usually get along. It's the domestic animals that give me grief.

Like the dog that treated me to the most disturbing physical sensation I have ever experienced. One time while delivering pizza the customer's young golden retriever decided it wanted something I'd eaten recently and stuck its entire tongue in my mouth and down my throat. Imagine swallowing hot bristly baloney coated in syrup. Or don't imagine it, it was awfully gross. Silly dog.

Then there were the cows. I love cows, they are as friendly and affectionate as dogs. Recently I went out to Liana's dads place and saw his cows. They were all inside that day, but they came over to see me. The bull came first, sniffed me, then reared back in panic. The cows were upset by this and took off. Yay stampede. Then I remembered that I own a dog and his scent was on my pants. Not just any dog mind you, an English Bull Terrier. Yeah, the one dog cattle are most afraid of. So I go marching up to them smelling like their mortal enemy and I was surprised when they panicked. Brilliant.

But it's the birds that really make me mad. How can anything be that cheerful at 4:45 am? Why do they choose my window ledge for their concert hall? One time when they were tuning up I actually got out of bed, opened my window and glared at them. They looked at me as if to say, "What? We're practising here." and refused to vacate the ledge. I don't know how, but they seem to know that I'm harmless. They won't even cross the fence line of our psychotic neighbour, but they'll line up on my bedroom window ledge.

As I was typing that last paragraph, my psychotic neigbour's dog Monty made a suicidal dash for freedom and ran towards the street. My neighbour just screamed right under my window. Poor quivering, spastic little Monty. Some day he'll be truly free and our neighbour will have to scream about something else.

On the bright side, all the noisy birds just took off. Go neighbour!
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Next Story: Electrity is Dangerous - Shocking Details Follow

Previous Story: They Don't Call it the Chemistry "Final" for Nothing
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They Don't Call it the Chemistry "Final" for Nothing

2007-05-05T10:37:00.000-05:00

Before I move on from the subject of high school (see yesterday's story) I want to tell you about the time I almost killed my entire class during the chemistry final exam.

The chemistry final involved actual lab experiments, set up at stations around the exam room. We had to complete experiments and then go back to our desks and write them up. Nice and simple. I finished the exam twenty minutes early but no matter how much I begged, Ms. Festing would not let me leave. I'm pretty sure she regretted that decision later.

I went looking for something to do. I found an empty beaker. I felt compelled to fill it. Under the guise of 'double-checking' my exam results, I went from station to station, collecting some of each chemical used in the experiments. The beaker began to fill up. Various chemicals went into it, whatever appealed to me. Eventually I had a large beaker full of powders and crystals. Red, white, yellow, blue, green, you name it, it was in there.

I stirred it all up until the mixture was evenly distributed. I waited. Nothing happened. I thought about it for a while and realized a catalyst would be needed. Fire would have been my first choice, but there was no way I could have turned on a Bunsen burner without drawing the attention of Ms. Festing. I was forced to go with my second choice.

Good old dihydrogen monoxide, a.k.a "water".

I went to the sink, pretending to be cleaning up and set my big beaker of chemicals under the tap. I didn't know what it was going to do, but I was confident it would do something. I filled the rest of the beaker with water and stirred it with my pen. The chemicals mixed and the magic began. I kept stirring vigorously for a few seconds until I noticed my pen felt somewhat lighter. The part of my pen that had been immersed in the mixture was gone. It had either melted off or been dissolved away.

Cool! (I took a few steps back just in case though.) The mixture started to darken. It rapidly turned black and then started expanding. A black cloud rose from the beaker. It smelled terrible. Then things went from bad to worse. I think what drew Ms. Festing was the sound of the beaker cracking. She burst into action. Exhaust fans were turned on, students were told to evacuate the room, it was great.

Finally the reaction stopped, leaving a cracked beaker covered inside and out with blackened goop. Ms. Festing came at me and demanded a list of everything I'd put in the beaker. We went from station to station. I explained while she jotted down notes. About halfway around the room she looked at the list and her face turned green and red at the same time.

"You idiot!" she shouted, "You have no idea what you just made, do you?" I shook my head.

"Try nerve gas." she said. "Really?" I asked, smiling.

I shouldn't have smiled.
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Next Story: If I Could Talk to the Animals

Previous Story: The Conclusion of the Fire Trilogy (For Now)
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Your First Month as a Blogger

2007-05-05T00:01:00.000-05:00

Whatever your reasons for starting a blog, there will be some obstacles. What issues will you have to face during your first month? How can you overcome them?

My blog, 'Popular Fiction' is one month old. I will share what I've learned in the past thirty days to help answer those questions.

Part 1: Approach

The first thing you need to do is relax. Excitement about your new blog is natural but it won't help you as much as calm determination and focus will. I spammed my friends and family the moment my blog was up and running. "Look, I'm on the Internet!" People will tolerate shameless self-promotion ONCE, if they are your friends. After that they will just ignore you.

As a blogger, the last thing you want is to be ignored. You want traffic. Traffic is Queen. Traffic is important if your blog is commercial, but also important even if your blog is for fun. This brings us to your first headache.

Tip: Check out Content May Be King But Traffic is Queen by Mitchell Harper.

You will hear advice on submitting your blog to major search engines and to blog directories and getting the word out. You have to do these things if you want traffic. What no one tells you is that for the first month, the major search engines will ignore you, blog directories will bury you and the many of people you announce your blog to will forget about you.

Stay calm and focused. If you lay a solid foundation your blog will attract traffic, but it takes time. Eventually all the work you do in promoting your blog will pay off, you just have to be patient.

But how do you build a solid foundation?

Part 2: Content

Content is King. Without good content, your blog is just a web page with fancy headings, bad colours and irrelevant AdSense ads. Content is the lifeblood of your blog.

The first thing to decide is not 'What should your content be?' That's secondary. Your first concern should be, 'How often will you post?' If you don't post often enough, the search engines will crawl your blog less often and people will stop checking to see if you've posted something. If you post too often, you will burn out and lose your joy as a blogger.

Whatever you decide, set up a schedule that will enable you to meet your posting goals. I post every day. I post one humour article each day, one author review each week and one feature article a month.

Tip: Check out How Often Should a Blogger Post? by Darren Rowse.

How do I keep up? I have a schedule and I stick to it. I also do something important. I prepare a few posts in advance. When I have some spare time I write three or four extra posts and save them as drafts for those days when I need to post something but the furnace repairmen are here, along with the city inspector and the guys from the gas company, my dog just attacked the water heater guy, the police are on their way and my lawyer isn't returning my calls.

So you're relaxed, determined and focused. You've mercilessly promoted your blog and you're patiently waiting for traffic. You have a good schedule and you've got some extra material stashed away for emergency days. Your blog is brimming with content. What now?

Part 3: Navigation

You caught Bigfoot in your backyard eating raspberries and you've got pictures to prove it. Millions of visitors flock to your blog to see the pictures. They spend about ten seconds reading your content looking for a link to the pictures. They don't find a link, so they leave. Didn't they see the previous posts link you painstakingly set up in your sidebar? Didn't they read every word in the post you gave your heart to? No, they didn't. They didn't finish reading your post and they didn't even notice you had a sidebar.

If your readers can't find what they want immediately they will leave. When this happened to me I was disappointed. My reports showed people reading half a story then moving on, or just flipping through a few pages quickly and then leaving. I asked people about certain posts I was proud of and even my DAILY readers weren't aware of them.

In Jakob Nielsen's article The Top Ten Design Mistakes, one of the things he talks about is weak navigation. People need to be able to find your important posts. The calendar or posts archive isn't good enough. You need to put links right in your main content. If people can find it, they'll read it. If they can't, they'll leave.

If you approach your first month as a blogger with calm determination, focus and patience, you will enjoy the learning process a lot more. If you provide good content on a regular basis, traffic will flow to your blog in time. If you make the extra effort to develop fast navigation, with links to other posts right inside your content, people will find what they're looking for and stay a while.

It will be be fun and interesting. You'll want to stick with it. Your first month as a blogger will be a good experience, and you'll remember it fondly.

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The Conclusion of the Fire Trilogy (For Now)

2007-05-04T12:22:00.000-05:00

I'm going to talk about fire one more time.

In high school, I got to make fire as part of the curriculum. I loved high school. Especially science class. There was one time during the chemistry exam where I nearly killed everyone, but that's another story for another time. (Maybe tomorrow?)

In Grade 10 Advanced Science, we had the coolest lab assignment ever. We had to set up a working system for fractional distillation of crude oil. One of the steps we had to complete was to fraction crude oil into gasoline. By distilling it, with heat from a Bunsen burner flame.

Let's be clear: Crude oil in liquid and gas form, gasoline and open natural gas flame. Thank you Mr. Watson, the Best Science Teacher Ever (Tm).

Apparently thousands of students have done the same experiment without incident. It used a closed tube system so the flammable materials were never exposed to oxygen or open flame. It was perfectly safe until I came along.

Mr. Watson checked my apparatus very carefully. Then, knowing me as he did, he checked it again. Everything was set. We lit our Bunsen burners and the fun began. From each table came sounds of excitement as gasoline began appearing in the condenser tube. Mine was filling up quickly. Everything went smoothly.

Until the stopper in my collection tube cracked.

Had I been sane, I would have immediately turned off my burner and grabbed the fire extinguisher. Instead I stood, watching gleefully as the gasoline leaked onto the outside of the tube. Mr. Watson must have seen the beatific expression on my face as the beads of gasoline dripped towards the open flame, because he was already moving with the fire extinguisher.

The apparatus lit up like the Fourth of July. I was so enthralled, I barely noticed him screaming at me to turn off the gas. The flames got into the tube and through the crack in the stopper, which popped off like a champagne cork. Oxygen got in.

A pillar of fire ascended from my table towards the heavens, my arms open wide, face beaming with joy at the holy offering I had made. Then Mr. Watson hit the fire extinguisher, ending my religious experience. He was furious. The class was furious. I thought they were going to lynch me.

Philistines.
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Nothing's Wrong, I'm Just Watering The Patio

2007-05-03T13:31:00.000-05:00

My dubious love affair with fire wasn't over. (See yesterday's post.)

I was out on the patio, tying to get rid of the ants. They had holes everywhere between the stones. No matter what we did, no matter what poison or traps we used, they kept coming back. So I experimented with different chemicals to see if anything we had in the shed would kill them.

Nothing worked. I tried Windex, fertilizer, antifreeze and more but nothing stopped them. They were the toughest ants ever. Eventually our patio became a chemical soup and probably a hazmat clean-up team's worst nightmare. But I wasn't finished. There was one bottle left in the shed that I hadn't tried. Lighter fluid.

The ants hated it. They didn't die outright, but I discovered that if I spread out a line of the stuff, they wouldn't cross it. It gave me an idea. I started working in a pattern from one end of the patio to the other, painstakingly laying down lines. Eventually the entire patio became a chessboard, marked out in lines of lighter fluid.

But I wasn't finished. I reasoned that if they hated the stuff that much, and I poured in on their mounds, they wouldn't come out ever again and they'd starve. Brilliant! So I worked the grid, squirting a shot of fluid into every single hole I could find. I got to one of the last holes and the bottle sputtered and went dry. I had used the entire bottle of lighter fluid.

I looked down upon my masterpiece. It was glorious, but it reeked. Only then did it occur to me that my mother, with her supernatural sense of smell might figure out what I had done. Only then did I stop to consider how I would clean up the mess. I was alarmed. But, it didn't take me long to come up with a solution.

I decided to burn it off.

I got the matches, stood at one corner of the grid and carefully touched the flame against the nearest ant mound, as a test. It lit up nicely, burning for quite a while and then getting smaller and smaller. But it didn't go out. The flame just got really small. I was intrigued. I leaned down for a closer look.

A few feet in front of me, another soaked ant hole burst into flame. Cool! I thought. Then I noticed another, then another. Soon there were half a dozen ant holes with little jets of flame coming out of them. Awesome! Then one of the flames reached out and touched the grid.

There was a deep woofing sound as the entire patio went up in flames. It was beautiful. It was glorious. It was going to get me killed. If not by the fire, then by my parent's wrath. I grabbed the garden hose, turned on the water and prepared to kill my masterpiece.

My mother chose that moment to call me from the kitchen window. "What's going on out there?" she asked. "Why are you using the hose?". I panicked. I replied, "Nothings wrong, I'm just watering the patio." There was a very long pause. "Do I need to come out there?" she asked. "NO!" I screamed, "I'm uh... cleaning it as a surprise for you, stay inside till I'm done." There was a very long pause. "Uh huh." she said.

I hosed like a madman. I used the water pressure to put of the flames and sweep all the fluid, chemicals and burnt weeds into the soil under the peonies. (The flowers didn't do so well that season.) As it dried, I meticulously detailed the cracks then swept the patio clean.

It took me a minute to realize that the ants were gone. Success! We didn't see another ant for the rest of the year. I was thrilled.

The following spring, they came back.

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It's Not On My Resume, But I Am a Skilled Pyromaniac

2007-05-02T11:59:00.000-05:00

Everybody has a secret skill. It's not something you put on your resume, and only your family and friends know about, maybe. My friend Paul used to hide all the candles, matches, lighters, scissors, knives and razors before I went over to his apartment to hang out. Paul is wise.

My secret skill? I start fires.

When I was young, I had a toy car, a little red hatchback with a door that actually opened, revealing it's cargo space. One day while my parents were out, I decided to fill that space with match heads. Mom had fancy wooden matches, which I painstakingly cut the heads off with a steak knife. I usually had a short attention span as a child but on that occasion I stayed focused long enough to pack the entire box of match heads inside the car.

The quiet, practical part of my mind, which never got a lot of attention back then, managed to convince the rest of me that we were doing something that might be dangerous. So I gave the situation some thought and came up with the perfect solution. I would set the car off in the bathroom sink. That way, when it went badly, I could turn on the water and put out the fire.

I put the car in the sink, above the drain and sat there wondering how I was going to light it without getting burned. I abandoned such clever ideas as throwing a lit match at it or making a paper fuse, since previous experiments had shown those methods were unreliable. I came up with a new plan, one guaranteed to work.

I sprayed the car with hairspray. Then I unscrewed the cap and poured liquid hairspray from the car, up the sink to the counter. I had my 'fuse'. Everything was ready for the big action scene. I rationalized what I was doing as though I were shooting a stunt scene from a movie. The fact that I had no camera was irrelevant. I was the camera.

I opened a new box of matches and lit one. The moment of truth arrived.

The hairspray worked. The car was quickly engulfed in blue flames, but the match heads inside the car didn't go off. I waited. The hairspray flames began to die. I was disappointed. I had to do something.

I reached in with a matchstick and opened the car's back door.

A fireball the size of a watermelon erupted, singeing my eyebrows. I screamed like a girl. I couldn't reach the tap without getting burned so I threw a towel over the sink. The flames continued, but I was able to get the tap turned on. The sink began to fill so I took the towel away.

The car floated, still on fire. It rose higher and higher with the water level. In desperation I used the towel to push the car under the water and drown it. Finally the fire went out.

The car and the towel were ruined. The sink, counter and mirror were covered in black soot. Knowing I would be killed if my parents found the bathroom this way, I got the cleaning supplies out and started scrubbing. My parents came home to the cleanest, most sparkling bathroom they have ever seen.

Disgusted, I decided, "Next time I am so doing this OUTSIDE."

Tomorrow: "Nothings Wrong, I'm Just Watering the Patio"
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I Thought I Had The Radiation Sickness

2007-05-01T08:05:00.000-05:00

In novels, authors are criticized if they use coincidence too often. Some believe it should be avoided altogether. In fiction, coincidence seems unrealistic and contrived. Yet in real life they do happen. Often in unbelievable ways.

My favorite kind of coincidence centers around a single topic. It's been years since you've even thought about the subject, or maybe you've just learned about it for the first time, and coincidentally that topic comes up two or three times in the same day, for unrelated reasons.

Last Tuesday I took dad to the hospital for a test. As I was getting ready to go out, I grabbed my comb and fixed my hair. When I was done, I noticed the comb was full of hair. I was alarmed. But the hair wasn't mine. Apparently my mother had borrowed my comb to brush away her loose hairs. Her hair is the same colour so it took me a second to figure it out. I asked her, "Did you use my comb again?" She said nothing. I said, "For a minute there I thought I had the radiation sickness, ha ha."

She didn't laugh.

I took dad for his test and afterward he suggested that we go for lunch. We went to the Mandarin Buffet. We were on our second plates when dad, between mouthfuls of breaded shrimp, loudly blurts out, "It's a good ting nobody in here has a Geiger counter 'cause I'd set it off for sure, ha ha!"

I was alarmed. I wondered if there had been a nuclear accident nearby that everyone knew about but me. I asked, "Why? Are you radioactive?" He replied, "Oh, sure!"

I blinked. I waited.

He explained that the test he'd had at the hospital was some kind of cardiac radio nucleotide test. They had injected him with radioactive materials and then measured how brightly his heart glowed, or something like that. My dad, the walking radiation source. Terrific.

On the way home from lunch, we stopped at the library to drop off some books. The last book in the pile on the checkout counter caught my eye. It was "Havoc" by Jack DuBrul. I looked at it and was alarmed.

It had the symbol for radiation on the cover.
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This Just In - Videos of Water Flash Freezing

2007-05-01T08:00:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I posted a story in which my coffee flash froze on me during the ice storm of '98. For those naysayers who think that's impossible, I present the following videos as evidence.

Watch as hot water freezes instantly when exposed to cold air.

The above video from January 1st, 2006 was taken by the organizers of the 2006 K-300 dog sled race to demonstrate why they decided to cancel the race.

But wait, there's more...

Watch water supercooled to -21 degrees flash freeze when exposed to normal air.

In this video, the water acts very much like my coffee did that night back in '98.

And finally, a video for fans of blowing things up.

A cool video made by the American Military about the effect of a torpedo on a destroyer.

It's water related and it's cool.
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Vote For April's Post of the Month

2007-05-01T07:55:00.000-05:00

May is here and that means it's time to vote for your favorite post from April's lineup. Please leave a comment below about which story you would call 'Post of the Month'. For your convenience, here's a complete list of all the humour stories last month.

April 2007

Truth is Stranger Than Fiction
Do You Have Poop in Your Bed?
When the Crazy Person on the Bus is You
Come On Baby, Do the Grandpa Shuffle
When Bad Things Happen to Good Toys
I'm Sorry, I Can't Understand You
The Beer Store. It's Where the Beers Are
When Your Client is a Crack-Smoking Retard
The Worst Client Ever
A Roll of the Dice
Golf - Jerry Lewis Style
It All Depends on How You Define Success
Timing is Everything
It's Hard to Believe We Survived Childhood
What Are You, Pregnant?
The Great Explosion of '82
Adventures in Cuba - When Water Skiing Kills
Indecent Exposure in the Hospital Cafeteria
Portrait of the Artist as a Baby
Adventures In Cuba - When in Doubt, Pee on Your Leg
I'm Turning Into My Father
Gino's Pizza - Where the Customer is Sometimes Wrong
Memories of the Emergency Room
Adventures In Cuba - People Are Funny When They're On Vacation
Adventures In Cuba - Mopeds Can't Climb Trees
Hungarian Humour - It's Not Funny Until Someone Dies
Hot Coffee at Twenty Below

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Hot Coffee at Twenty Below

2007-04-30T01:15:00.000-05:00

In January of 1998, Ontario and Quebec experienced the worst ice storm in Canadian history. I remember it because I worked for The National Post at the time, delivering newspapers in the wee hours of the morning. One night near the end of the storm, my car slid down an inclined road, hit the curb and wrecked my right front wheel. I quit that job the next day.

However, a few days before I quit, I had an experience that still haunts me.

The temperature dropped so low that no more frozen rain could fall. It was just too cold. So I was happy they'd built a new Tim Horton's near my route, because I needed a coffee. Instead of using the drive through, I went inside to warm up a bit.

I carried my coffee back to the car as fast as I could and jumped inside. My coffee cup ended up perched on the steering wheel because there was no where else to put it. The cup holders were blocked by all my papers. I got settled, reached for my coffee and it shot out of my hand, turned upside-down and emptied itself into my lap.

Fortunately the brief walk to my car had cooled the coffee off enough that it didn't scald me, but it was still unpleasant. I was so concerned about the coffee not dripping through my pants onto the car seat, that I did the dumbest thing.

I jumped out of the car.

At that moment, a terrible wind came up. It was the kind of wind I'm sure the Inuit have a name for that means "find shelter fast or your ookpik will freeze and fall off". It was so cold that the coffee in my underwear, my pants and on my skin flash-froze.

It was a most disturbing physical sensation. It didn't freeze solid, what it did was turn into a kind of coffee slush. Not thinking, I undid my pants and reached between my legs, pulling out a snowball-sized handful of what looked like brown Slurpee. I remember babbling hysterically and dancing while trying to scrape the icy goop off my skin before something really bad happened.

It finally occurred to me that it might hurt less if I got back in the car. To heck with getting the seat dirty. So I jumped in, grabbed a napkin and worked feverishly at the affected area. Suddenly I remembered that I was in a public parking lot. I nervously looked around to see if anyone had witnessed my crazy-pants dance.

No one to the right, no one in front of me. Thank goodness. I looked left.

Facing me was a big white car with flashing blue and red lights on top. A lone policeman, coffee poised at his lips, mouth hanging open, was looking right at me.

For a minute, neither of us broke eye contact. Finally I took a chance, started my car and drove away, hoping and praying the entire time. I went home and had a nice, hot shower.

I know that I will never forget scooping coffee slush out of my underwear during the ice storm of '98.

I bet that cop won't forget it either.

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Previous Story: Hungarian Humour - It's Not Funny Until Someone Dies
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I Need Your Help Inviting New Readers

2007-04-30T01:00:00.000-05:00

I welcome new readers and there are some fast and easy ways you can invite them.

1) E-Mail: At the bottom of every post is a little symbol that looks like an envelope. If you click this, the system will automatically send a link and your comments, to the address you enter. It's a great way to share a story you enjoyed with your friends. If you do this I will be very grateful.

2) If you have a blog or a website: I will happily exchange links with you. Please contact me at tfuhr@sympatico.ca. If your site is relatively clean and interesting, I will link to you. I will also consider exchanging reviews. Contact me for details.

3) Forums: If you visit forums or groups, where appropriate, you may post a message about any story you enjoyed. You have my permission to copy and paste text directly from any of my posts as long as you include a working link to the URL http://tdfuhringer.blogspot.com/.

Thank you very much for your support.

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Hungarian Humour - It's Not Funny Until Someone Dies

2007-04-29T08:30:00.000-05:00

My Father's favorite topics of conversation are disasters and death. At parties, he is a bright ray of sunshine. The kind of sunshine that hurts your eyes, burns you and causes skin cancer. The kind of sunshine that blinds you to oncoming traffic so you collide with a bus full of schoolchildren and everyone dies screaming in a twisted metal inferno. You get the idea. Actually he can be very funny, it's just that his sense of humour often leans towards the macabre.

So I was sitting in the car yesterday with my Dad and my friends Paul and Liana. I hadn't seen them for a while so I asked Liana, "What are you guys doing for fun these days?" She replied, "Oh nothing really. This afternoon we're going to a funeral." Thank goodness I didn't ask her what they do when they aren't trying to have fun.

Dad, hearing the word funeral, launched into a convoluted story about the funerals back in Hungary when he was a kid and how they scared the crap out of him. I wish I had an audio recording of his story so I could share it with you because I was in tears (of laughter) by the time he was done.

He described a draconian funeral procession where everyone in town had to participate on pain of excommunication, everyone dressed head to toe in black, everyone wailing and crying, the men even louder than the women. The procession had a wooden cart drawn by four mangy, depressed horses carrying the black casket, followed by the mourners, who were then followed by the band.

Yes I said band.

Not a happy band though. This was your classic Germanic oom-pah band with all the excitement and colour and dancing stripped away, leaving a pale miserable husk of an excuse for an oompah-band. They would play the blackest, most mournful dirges. Songs so utterly sad that only a sociopath could avoid crying. After a few songs, when the procession arrived at the graveyard, the mourners would be wailing and howling like wounded wolves.

They'd huddle around the grave, open up the casket for one last look at the yellowing cadaver, at which point the priest would begin shouting over the crying and screaming. (This next part is verbatim from Dad's story) "Da priest would do his wampire woodoo, wit holy water and udder whaddever and by da time he was finished, people would be trowing demselves in da grave dey were so sad."

Then Dad says, "And dis went on every week!"

Classic.

During one of these happy occasions, my Dad climbed up onto cemetary walls for a better view. At the end of the procession, tied to the back of the casket cart by a rope, was a young bronco. For those of you not familiar with horses, a bronco is an untrained or imperfectly broken mustang. This means no one can ride it. My Dad decided that he would try riding it. As the horse passed underneath him, he jumped off the wall onto it's back. That day, he learned the true meaning of the phrase 'bucking bronco'.

At least his ride of terror was more fun than the funeral.
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This Just In - Dog Owners Fleeced In Poodle Scam

2007-04-29T08:00:00.000-05:00

This cannot possibly be a real story. It just can't. No one could be that dense.

Look at these pictures. Can you tell which one is the sheep and which one is the poodle?

Apparently some people can't. Apparently some people need to go back to kindergarten.

Since human stupidity is often depressing, let me share an other animal story with you, this one far more uplifting.

Meet Nora, The Piano-Playing Cat

That's right. Two minutes and forty-eight seconds of agony while Nora beats at a piano with her paws. I dare you to sit through the entire thing.

How this ended up in their top twenty videos section I will never know.
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Stan Pottinger

2007-04-29T07:30:00.000-05:00

Why do I recommend Stan Pottinger?

Simply put, his books are terrifying. Stan Pottinger knows how to shock, create dread, incite horror and twist the plot, all at the same time. His books aren't quite as pretzel-twisty as say, Harlan Coben (who I will review soon) but you will be surprised at the turns his stories take.

His first book,The Fourth Procedure was both frightening and genuinely disturbing.

From the jacket - "Combining the best elements of explosive courtroom drama and groundbreaking medical technology with controversial social issues, The Fourth Procedure explores fundamental questions of life and death. It takes the reader beyond the boundaries of today's medicine to an all-too-plausible scenario of a frightening future.The Fourth Procedure. The most terrifying legal-medical thriller. Ever."

They're not kidding. I have never read anything that deals with these subjects so thoroughly and in such terrifying ways before. The final chapters of The Fourth Procedure are utterly heartbreaking. There is a monologue in the book that is one of the most unbearable things I have ever read. No light fluff here, Stan kicks you in the teeth and then some.

After The Fourth Procedure, I figured his next book couldn't possibly live up to the same standard. I was wrong.

His next book, A Slow Burning is just as interesting, though quite different.

From Publishers Weekly - "Pottinger proves he is a master of the art of the medical thriller and a formidable voice in examining American race relations.... this kaleidoscopic thriller is marvelously complex, charged with emotional impact and resounding ethical questions."

His other books, The Final Procedure (also published as "The Last Nazi") and The Boss are also terrific .

Stan Pottinger gets my wholehearted recommendation.

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Adventures In Cuba - Mopeds Can't Climb Trees

2007-04-28T08:30:00.000-05:00

As promised yesterday, here is the story of what happened to Steve's wife.

I was sitting in the pool when someone came by and said that there had been an accident involving one of the guests. Soon word came in that someone had been involved in a moped crash and had to be taken to the nearby hospital in Pilon. Eventually we found out it was Steve's wife.

The buzz at the hotel was huge. Everyone wanted to know what had happened but no one had details. Finally the hotel nurse was cornered and forced into spilling the beans.

Steve's wife had to be hospitalized due to injuries sustained from being impaled on the branches of a small tree after being thrown from her moped.

Of course, once we found out she was going to be okay, we all started laughing about it. The hotel's mopeds had a top speed of about 40 kph. On level ground. With the wind coming from behind. Getting thrown into a tree by a moped was fairly close to impossible, we reasoned. The rest of the day was spent advancing theories (which grew more outrageous with each drink consumed) as to how she could have possibly ended up in a tree.

We laughed. We mocked. We had no idea that Karma was waiting in the wings for the first schlemiel who dared to sit on a moped.

Of course that schlemiel was me.

I used every weapon in my arsenal to get my family to let me try out a moped. They knew better, especially my mother. Given the amount of time I've spent in the Emergency Room, she knew that allowing me to get on a moped was a recipe for disaster. But I insisted. I knew the danger. I was going to be very careful. Look at what happened to Steve's wife. I'd learned from her hard lesson. I promised to stay away from trees.

So my father and I rented a pair of mopeds and headed down the road to freedom. No helmets, no socks. Just shorts and tee-shirts. Brilliant.

We visited the nearby town of Pilon, driving very safely and everything was fine. We headed back and slowly I started getting confident. It was great. The sun was shining, the ocean was on my right, the Sierra Maestra mountains were on the left. The road was freshly paved and completely devoid of traffic. Oh, did I mention the road was completely flat too? There was no way I could possibly have an accident under those conditions.

Unless of course, I stopped paying attention.

I snapped back to attention at the exact moment my front wheel left the road. I did the one thing you should never do with a two-wheeled vehicle. I over corrected. The moped flipped up on it's front wheel and I went for a brief flight. I remember watching a guy on a horse watch me as I flew headfirst towards the pavement. My left temple and shoulder took the brunt of it at first. Then the moped landed on me and peeled a layer of skin off my leg.

I lay there for a while listening to the surf and the sound of my father's moped put-putting it's way up the road towards me. He yelled and asked me if I was okay, so I sat up and checked. I felt fine. So fine that I brushed the wet hair away from my forehead, allowing the split in my scalp to release the fountain of blood that had been waiting burst forth.

By the time I got back to the hotel I was caked all down my left side with blood. I walked through the lobby to gasps and whispers. I headed down the path towards the pool, where the nurse's station was. My mother was sitting in the shade with her back to me. She didn't even have to turn around. The looks on the faces of the people sitting around her told her the whole story.

She knew. I should have known better too.
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Next Post: Hungarian Humour - It's Not Funny Until Someone Dies

Previous Post: Stephen Hawking in Space?
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This Just In - Stephen Hawking in Space?

2007-04-28T08:00:00.000-05:00

Picture - Astrophysicist Stephen Hawking, paralyzed by Lou Gehrig's disease, floats during a zero-gravity flight; an apple, a tribute to Isaac Newton, drifts along with him.

Quote - "It might not seem like a brilliant idea, allowing a frail 65-year-old paralytic to float free from gravity aboard a rising and plunging roller-coaster stunt flight.
But who's to argue with Stephen Hawking?

The celebrated British astrophysicist and black-hole theorist, author of "A Brief History of Time," paralyzed by Lou Gehrig's disease and communicating largely through eye movements, has long wanted to visit outer space. Human survival depends on getting there, he says. An event here Thursday was described as his first improbable step."

I think it's a great idea. Here's a link to the full article.

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Next News Post: Dog Owners Fleeced In Poodle Scam

Previous Post: Adventures in Cuba - People Are Funny When They're On Vacation
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Adventures In Cuba - People Are Funny When They're On Vacation

2007-04-27T11:00:00.000-05:00

Have you ever noticed that ordinary people get a sense of humour when they're on vacation? I met a lot of people in Cuba who were probably boring at home. Take away the stress of work, put a drink in their hand and let the warm sun shine down on them and suddenly they're Jay Leno.

Like Phil, the candy salesman from Ottawa. Boring. But in Cuba, on vacation? A riot. (If you ever meet Phil, do not play Scrabble with him, he will destroy you.) Or the scary German lady who sat at the bar by the pool for the entire two weeks and never left her chair except to go eat breakfast. "Effery-von yust comes heer fur da smokingk, drinkingk und ZEX!" High comedy.

Of all the hundreds of people I met while on vacation in Cuba, none stick in my mind as clearly as Steve. Steve was a roofer, with a permanent sunburn and a great physique. I know this because he only ever wore a pair of khaki shorts and flip flops. Steve stood out for two reasons. He had a really hot wife and a cute little girl, but he talked like a Halifax dress designer. He would say, "Stop!" in the most effeminate way possible. When he talked, he made Nathan Lane look straight.

The other reason was that he always had a cigarette in his mouth. Even while drinking, he would hold the cigarette in one corner of his mouth and drink from the other. While playing volleyball, the cigarette was there. I saw him treading water in the pool once, cigarette dangling. In fact I only saw him without a cigarette in his mouth once.

It was the night of the bats.

There was a long row of trees running beside the middle of the hotel. There was a path between the open hotel hallway and the trees. That's where I found Steve late one night. He was standing on the path, cigarette dangling, beer in one hand and a huge ripe coconut in the other. He was staring up at the trees like he was having a vision of Jesus descending out of the clouds. As I approached he said, "Stop!" So I stood there and waited.

"What's the coconut for, Steve?" I asked.
"There's bats in the trees." he replied, drunkenly.
"Bats?"
"Hundreds of them."
"Really?"
"I'm going to prove it." he said, hefting the coconut in his right hand and rearing back for the throw.

Steve must have been a baseball player in a previous life, because I have never seen a coconut fastball fly with more style and accuracy. It hit a huge gnarl near the top of the biggest tree with a loud "Whok!" noise. Everybody heard it and looked up.

The bats heard it too. They woke up and immediately did that echo-location trigonometry thing they do so well. En masse, they attacked the hurler of the offending coconut.

Steve's initial estimate of "hundreds" was so far off, I'm glad he wasn't an accountant. A cloud of bats the size of Texas poured out of the trees and engulfed him. It was an avalanche of black fur and flapping wings and just before they overwhelmed Steve I saw the cigarette fall from his lips. He ducked and covered his head while the bats streamed past, screaming like a little girl one moment and swearing like a sailor the next. The bats filled the path, the hallway, they were everywhere. One lady opened her hotel room door to see what the screaming was about and got a face full of fur for her trouble.

Eventually the bats settled down and flocked back into the tops of the trees to rest. Steve, eyes wide and shaking, slowly reached down and picked up his cigarette. He dusted it off, stuck it back in his mouth and took a long, deep pull.

"Oh my GOD, did you SEE that?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Stop!" he said. "Help me find my coconut?"

I ran.

P.S. Tomorrow I'll tell you what happened to Steve's wife. And what happened to me when I laughed about it. Karma is one mean-spirited bitch.

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Next Post: Stephen Hawking In Space?

Previous Post: Drunk Man Rides Horse Into Bank
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This Just In - Drunk Man Rides Horse Into Bank

2007-04-27T10:00:00.000-05:00

Here's the link.

I don't even have to say anything for it to be funny. Well, OK. I'll give you the picture, how's that?

Quote - "A drunk German horse rider rode into a bank foyer to sleep for the night, after having one too many for the road during a stopover at his local beergarden."

At least he didn't try to blame the Unicorn.
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Next Post: Adventures in Cuba - People Are Funny When They're On Vacation

Previous Post: Memories of the Emergency Room
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Memories of the Emergency Room

2007-04-26T09:57:00.000-05:00

I spent an awful lot of time in the E.R. at the hospital when I was a kid. I was in there so often one year, they had someone take me aside and ask me what happened, to make sure I wasn't a battered child. I tearfully explained how I had climbed onto my desk and leaped off (I have no idea what I was thinking), gashing my chin. The hospital staff had a good laugh at my expense. All I got was this Harrison Ford chin scar.

I guess it started when I was very young. I had this fascination with my nose. Well, who doesn't at that age. One night when I was just a toddler, my parents and I were going to a Bible Study group in our apartment building. Mom came to check on me and discovered that I had a lump in my nose. Apparently I had shoved an unusually large quantity of toilet paper up my nostril. (I have no idea what I was thinking) The wad was really jammed in there and Mom couldn't get it out in time, so we went to the group anyway.

I sat there, quietly half-humming through my one good nostril. Everything was fine until I suddenly sneezed. The thing in my nose shot out into the middle of the room in plain sight of everyone. It was a huge, glistening clump of decaying paper with a trail going all the way back to my nose. Mom scooped it up and acted like nothing had happened. I escaped a trip to the E.R. that time. But not the next time.

The next time I think it was a pen lid. Up my nose that is. Had to be removed at the E.R. Then there was the time I was walking up the stairs from the basement, holding a plastic curler in my hand, when I slipped and impaled myself in the eyelid. Off to the hospital. Or when I got my first bed, instead of the crib, and I rolled out of it right onto the hardwood floor. Nose first. Back to E.R.

Then there was the time we had a house full of guests and I caught myself in my zipper and... um, maybe I'll just leave that one alone. Let's just say, it went badly.

It's amazing I survived childhood.

Someday when I have children of my own, I just know I'll be sitting in the E.R. waiting area while the hospital staff interrogate my kid and try not to laugh. I'm already prepared for it. It's inevitable.

I'll know who they got it from.
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Next Post: Drunk Man Rides Horse Into Bank

Previous Post: Amazing Russian Cake Art
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This Just In - Amazing Russian Cake Art

2007-04-26T00:05:00.000-05:00

Who doesn't love cake? I could eat cake all day. Mmm cake...

Especially white cake with butter cream icing. (Drool)

Well cake lovers, prepare to be blown away. Every single one of these pictures is a real, fully edible cake, made by Zhanna from St. Petersburg.

Too lazy to click on the link? Ok, I give you... yummy cake!

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Next Post: Memories of the Emergency Room

Previous Post: Gino's Pizza - Where the Customer is Sometimes Wrong
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Gino's Pizza - Where the Customer is Sometimes Wrong

2007-04-25T09:27:00.000-05:00

We have a lot of really wonderful customers at the Gino's Pizza where I work. We know many of them by name. We know their kids, their pets, where they live, what they do for work. We know all this because our boss spends more time chatting with the customers than he does working. He's the boss, he can do what he likes. And he likes getting to know the customers.

But not all our customers are good ones.

There's the funny ones, like the fellow who called one night and asked, "Do you guys have like, subs?" We told him no. We're Gino's Pizza. We make pizza. So he asked, "Oh, well do you guys have like, burgers?" We told him no. We're Gino's Pizza. We make pizza. So he asked, "What about like, ribs?" Guess what we told him. So finally he says, "Then what the hell do you have?" We explained the whole 'pizza' thing. He then said, "I hate pizza." and hung up.

Just say no to drugs, kids.

There's the emotional ones, like the lady who came in and ordered our $9.99 large, three item pizza, walk-in special. When her pizza came out she said, "I ordered a large." She points to the slice tray and says, "I wanted one like this." Well that's our Centurion pizza, twenty inches. We can make you one in a few minutes if you're willing to wait. She says, "I shouldn't have to wait, that's what I ordered and I want it." No ma'am you ordered a large. The industry standard for a large pizza is 14". This is a large. If you want a bigger pizza we'll make one for you, no problem.

She asked how much for a 20". We told her. She started yelling, "OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! Every other pizza place if you order a large you get a large but here you get NOTHING. You pay and you get NOTHING. OH MY GOD!" Eventually she made her way out to the parking lot, where we could still hear her screaming, "OH MY GOD!"

It's just a pizza, lady. Please calm down.

But the worst of the worst are the ones who can't do math. This lady ordered a large one-topping pizza. We had a special at the time on a medium one-topping pizza for 6.99 plus tax. The boss accidentally charged her only $7.96. The boss' wife compounded the error by giving the lady $13.04 change from a twenty, instead of the correct $12.04. So we undercharged her and gave her a dollar extra back in her change, nice and simple right?

She comes back to the till and tells us that the woman charged her the wrong price. She puts $13.04 on the counter and says, "She charged me seventeen dollars for a large pizza." We scratched our heads. We showed her using the calculator that $20.00 minus $13.04 is $6.96. We explained that the boss' wife accidentally charged her for a medium instead of a large and gave her an extra dollar back in her change. We told her to keep the extra change and not to worry about having been undercharged. She said, "NO, you owe me ten dollars!" We explained it to her again. She got really upset.

Eventually she demanded her money back. We said fine. We gave her a twenty back, took the $13.04 and told her to keep the pizza anyway. She refused and continued to rant. She demanded that we admit we were wrong. We showed her again, on the calculator, that she was mistaken.

She shouted, "Don't give me that calculator $#!%, I know what I'm talking about, I'M AN ACCOUNTANT!"

We have a lot of really wonderful customers at the Gino's Pizza where I work.
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Don't miss today's feature article: "What's so Funny?"

This Just In - Popular Fiction Goes Public

Next Post: Amazing Russian Cake Art

Previous Post: The Idiot Test
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Popular Fiction Goes Public

2007-04-25T00:03:00.000-05:00

It's new, it's improved, it's 'Popular Fiction'.

'Popular Fiction' is a daily humour blog written by T. D. Fuhringer, covering such diverse topics as Adventures In Cuba - When Water Skiing Kills or
The Beer Store. It's Where the Beers Are and even Golf - Jerry Lewis Style.

'Popular Fiction' also includes fun news items, reviews of authors and their books, and will soon include monthly feature articles about humour, writing and of course, popular fiction.

'Popular Fiction' is a Safe For Work site and is generally family friendly, with only occasional mild language for comedic purposes. Everyone is welcome.

Thanks for reading, I hope you all enjoy it!
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Go Back to the Main Page
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What's So Funny?

2007-04-25T00:01:00.000-05:00

If this is a humour blog, why is it called 'Popular Fiction'?

What's so funny about popular fiction? Nothing really. The title is actually a play on words. I believe that truth is stranger (and more funny) than fiction. The humour articles I post here are all true stories, not fiction. I believe that funny stories are popular. It's my hope that the humour articles I post here will all be popular too (and funny). Also I don't expect my readers to believe that these stories are true, since they are often so outrageous that no one can believe them. But that's half of what makes them funny. Part of you wants to believe that what you're reading is true, which makes it funny. Part of you wants to believe that what you're reading is fiction, so it's OK to laugh, which also makes it funny.

Now do you see why I called my humour blog, 'Popular Fiction'?

There is a second reason too. My favorite thing to read is popular fiction. It's also my favorite thing to write. To me, popular fiction should entertain the reader; teaching the reader something is secondary. To me, literature should teach the reader something; entertainment is secondary. That's my opinion. I don't claim to truly understand the difference between popular fiction and literature, I'm just saying that I enjoy reading popular fiction a lot more than I enjoy reading literature. So books that are considered popular fiction are of great interest to me.

So, what can a regular reader of "Popular Fiction", the blog expect?

Humour Articles: Every day I will post a new humour article. Hopefully you'll find it funny, or at least entertaining. Subjects will include my family, mishaps on family vacations, accidents, moments of stupidity, moments of brilliance and other incidents from my life (and the lives of my friends and family) that I find funny.

News Items: These short posts, called "This Just In" are in no way breaking news. They are trivial and often silly. They are my attempt to sift through all the bad news and find something funny or interesting, that's not too heavy or thought-provoking. I will link to the original articles whenever possible. If I don't find something funny or amusing on any given day, then there won't be a "This Just In" post.

Author Reviews: These (hopefully) weekly articles will feature a review of a single author and his or her body of work, rather than a single book. I will explain exactly what it is I like about the author's work, which books I particularly enjoyed and where the reader should begin if they've never read the author's books before.

Where to start? The main page features today's humour post.

Or you could start at the beginning, with my first post
"Truth is Stranger than Fiction".

Wherever you start, I hope you enjoy what you read.

Welcome to "Popular Fiction"!
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Go Back to The Main Page
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Feature Articles Index

2007-04-24T23:58:00.000-05:00

Here is the complete list of every Feature Article, listed by title. Feature articles appear MONTHLY. More feature articles will be coming soon!

April: What's So Funny?

May: Your First Month as a Blogger

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Go Back to the Main Page
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News Items Index

2007-04-24T23:49:00.000-05:00

Here is the complete list of every "This Just In" post, listed by month and title for your conveniece. "This Just In" is posted whenever I find something I find something I feel like sharing.

April 2007

Inappropriate Furniture Colors
Silent Roller Coaster
I Want My Grant Money
Woman of My Dreams
Roller Coaster House Prices
One Million Miles
Faster than a Speeding Raccoon
Will Ferrell's "The Landlord"
He's Fred Thompson, You're Nothing
Google Maps get a Sense of Humour
How Not to Beat a Traffic Ticket
Lucky Dog Saves Own Life
The Idiot Test
Popular Fiction Goes Public
Amazing Russian Cake Art
Drunk Man Rides Horse Into Bank
Stephen Hawking In Space?
Dog Owners Fleeced In Poodle Scam
I Need Your Help

May 2007

Videos of Water Flash Frezing
Popular Fiction Hits 100 Visitors
Found 20 Light Years Away: The New Earth
Popular Fiction Hits Technorati Top 100,000

June 2007

Vote For May's Post of the Month
Blogger.com bots have no sense of humour
Best Thrill Ride Ever
"We Don't Know What Ignited The Fire" Police Said

July 2007

You Think You're Tough?

August 2007

Good Thing They Have Flippers Not Hands
The Most Fascinating Thing I've Heard This Century

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Go Back to the Main Page
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This Just In - The Idiot Test

2007-04-24T11:00:00.000-05:00

This goofy thing is making the rounds these days. If you're looking for something to kill ten minutes instead of actually working, try it!

The Idiot Test

What rating did you get?
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This even goofier bit of video shows what happens when people with way too much time on their hands take a cool idea to the extreme. I can't stop watching. It's awesome, yet deeply nerdy.

The Real Transformers

I wish I had thought of that when I was younger.
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And finally, a note to people like "Your First Critic" who commented on yesterday's This Just In. This feature is simply a bit of fun for us A.D.D. types before the main course. If you look very carefully, you'll see that UNDERNEATH every "This Just In" is the day's humour article. "This Just In" is a bonus. "Author Reviews" is a bonus. Next month's "Feature Articles" will be a bonus. The daily humour articles are and always will be the main feature of this site. Enjoy!
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Next Post: Gino's Pizza - Where the Customer is Sometimes Wrong

Previous Post: I'm Turning Into My Father
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I'm Turning Into My Father

2007-04-24T10:58:00.000-05:00

I guess it was inevitable.

Dad had knee surgery, and he's overweight, so he stoops when he walks. This means that on average, between two and four inches of upper butt area is exposed above the pant line. In the family, we're somewhat used to this. In public, he does draw a few stares. "Say no to crack!" is frequently heard at our house.

So I was at work this past weekend, and the young pregnant lady I wrote about earlier says to me, "I can see your underwear." I froze. I felt behind me and sure enough, the top inch of my FTL's was riding up over my pant line. (Yes, my underwear is Faster Than Light.) My first thought was, "My God, I'm turning into my father."

Well at least I don't leave goofy notes around for people to find and be puzzled by. One time My mother and I came home and Dad was out, but he'd left us a note. The note said, "Frodo did not pup." It took us a minute to figure out that "pup" was Dad's Hungarian-English way of saying "poop". I guess he felt it was important enough to leave us a note. A warning of sorts. Goodness knows that Frodo's dancing at the door and whining wasn't enough of a clue.

So last night and today I've been having ISP problems. I finally got connected to the Internet and got my security manager re-installed and I decided to run a virus scan. I left the PC doing it's thing while I left to take Dad down to the hospital for some routine tests. I didn't want Mom to use the PC while I was gone so I wrote, "NO!" on a napkin and hung it over the monitor. I figured that wasn't enough so a I made a paper tent over the keyboard that said, "I said NO!"

It hit me later. Yep, I'm turning into my father.

One time, Dad came home from work really tired and he never bothered to put on pants after he'd gotten out of his overalls. So he's making spaghetti in a tee-shirt and underwear. He gets his spaghetti on the plate, all piled up with awesome meat sauce. He's got a can of beer in his other hand. He carries everything downstairs to sit in front of the TV and vegetate. He went to plop into his La-Z-Boy chair when the footrest popped open and knocked his legs out from under him.

It was spectacular. His beer can hit the floor and erupted, firing a white plume of foam up all over everything. He landed in a prone position, perfectly poised beneath the falling plate of spaghetti. The entire plateful of noodles and meat sauce slid off the plate directly into his lap. Of course he shouted, "Whoa Crap!"

It was grand.

So I'm in the kitchen the other day, too lazy to put on pants after I'd gotten out of my work clothes and I'm cooking bacon... I bet you can guess what happened.

Yeah, I'm definitely turning into my father.

P.S. Hot bacon hurts. Especially when it hits sensitive areas. Don't ever let it happen. Just don't.
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Next Post: The Idiot Test

Previous Post: Lucky Dog Saves Own Life
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This Just In - Lucky Dog Saves Own Life

2007-04-23T11:09:00.000-05:00

Sometimes stories do have a happy ending.

Lucky Dog Saves Her Own Life

Quote - "A clever canine in Missouri took quick action to save her own life, right when she was about to be euthanized."

Check out the great video.

Sometimes stories don't have an ending at all.

Ghost Ship Found Off Coast of Australia

Quote - "A 40-foot catamaran found drifting off Australia's Great Barrier Reef had its sails up, engines running and food on the table, but no crew, officials said Friday after launching a massive search for the missing men."

Downright creepy.
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Next Post: I'm Turning Into My Father

Previous Post: Adventures in Cuba - When in Doubt, Pee on Your Leg
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Adventures in Cuba - When in Doubt, Pee on Your Leg

2007-04-23T11:07:00.000-05:00

I eventually went back to the same island in Cuba where I suffered my water skiing tragedy. It was called "Cayo Blanco" and they had several other activities there that didn't involve pain and humiliation. Like snorkeling. Perfectly safe, no danger whatsoever. I'd been snorkeling many times before and the worst injury I'd sustained was a sunburn. I figured it would be a breeze.

I made it six feet into water before it went badly. I didn't even have time to put on my mask and flippers. I was in less than a foot of water, minding my own business when something bit my ankle. I screamed like a girl.

As soon as I'd calmed down and remembered that sharks generally don't swim in one foot of very warm water, I examined my leg. I had a small, black hole in the back of my ankle with what looked like a long piece of pencil lead stuck in it. I hobbled back to the bar, which doubled as a first aid station and showed the staff my foot.

Turns out I'd been stung by a Sea Urchin. Specifically a Caribbean Diadema Antillarum, and although the spines are not venomous, the stinging goop on the pedicellariae hurts like hell if it happens to get jammed into the back of your foot. The Cubans had a good laugh at my expense. Then it got a little weird.

My Spanish was limited to "Donda esta la piscina?" and "Una bocadito de jamon y queso, por favor." Oh and who could forget the most important "Una cerveza por favor!" So I thought that maybe, just maybe I was hearing wrong when they told me I needed to pee on my leg. They explained, between giggles, that human urine acts as an anti-venom and if I urinated onto the back of my foot, the pain would go away.

It took me quite a while to accept this, and as I stumbled off into the palm trees for privacy, carrying an empty cola bottle to collect the anti-venom, I wondered if they were still laughing at me. But it hurt, so I tried it. I filled the bottle and then slowly poured it's contents onto my ankle.

It was a miracle. The pain disappeared. I couldn't believe it. Yay urine!

I asked my doctor later when I got home and he explained that there are conflicting views as to the efficacy of urine for treating urchin stings. At best, the ammonia may help neutralize the venom, but it does nothing to help remove the embedded stinger.

For future note, the correct treatment for a sea urchin sting is immersion in hot water and surgical removal of the spines.

Or you could stand there like an idiot and pee on your leg.
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Next Post: Lucky Dog Saves Own Life

Previous Post: Portrait of the Artist as a Baby
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Humour Posts Index

2007-04-23T10:15:00.000-05:00

Looking for a favorite story? Here is a convenient list with links to every single humour post, by month and title, from the beginning. Humour articles are posted DAILY.

April 2007

Truth is Stranger Than Fiction
Do You Have Poop in Your Bed?
When the Crazy Person on the Bus is You
Come On Baby, Do the Grandpa Shuffle
When Bad Things Happen to Good Toys
I'm Sorry, I Can't Understand You
The Beer Store. It's Where the Beers Are
When Your Client is a Crack-Smoking Retard
The Worst Client Ever
A Roll of the Dice
Golf - Jerry Lewis Style
It All Depends on How You Define Success
Timing is Everything
It's Hard to Believe We Survived Childhood
What Are You, Pregnant?
The Great Explosion of '82
Adventures in Cuba - When Water Skiing Kills
Indecent Exposure in the Hospital Cafeteria
Portrait of the Artist as a Baby
Adventures In Cuba - When in Doubt, Pee on Your Leg
I'm Turning Into My Father
Gino's Pizza - Where the Customer is Sometimes Wrong
Memories of the Emergency Room
Adventures In Cuba - People Are Funny When They're On Vacation
Adventures In Cuba - Mopeds Can't Climb Trees
Hungarian Humour - It's Not Funny Until Someone Dies
Hot Coffee at Twenty Below

May 2007

I Thought I Had The Radiation Sickness
It's Not On My Resume But I Am a Skilled Pyromaniac
Nothings Wrong, I'm Just Watering The Patio
The Conclusion of the Fire Trilogy (For Now)
They Don't Call it the Chemistry "Final" For Nothing
If I Could Talk to the Animals
Electricity is Dangerous - Shocking Details Follow
Things That Go "Bonk, Smash, Ouch!" in the Night
The Top Five Fuhringer Family Fishing Trip Disasters
Everybody Wants to be Famous
Pillar of Fire - It Runs in the Family
Adventures in Cuba - The Bus Driver From Hell
I've Got a Rip in My Pants Again
That's Not How We Use Our Crayons
They Called Me "Ink Mouth"
Squirrels Aren't Stupid, They're Just Thrill Seekers
More Squirrel Madness - Indoor Rodent Sports
My Dad Could Mess Up 'Shake 'n Bake'
Barbecue Tips For the Insane
Communication - The Keep Two a Shabbly Family Live
Window Cleaning With George - Episode One
Window Cleaning Again, Now With More Golf
Golf - With My Mom
The Only Patch of Ice in the Entire Parking Lot
The Only Banana Peel in the Entire Valley
The Password is 'IMARETARD'
If the Animals Could Talk to Me

June 2007

If Animals Could Talk It Would Be Scary
The Time I Almost Died
The Time I Almost Got Run Over by a Bus
Frodo and the Old Nazi
Excuse Me Sir, There's a Tree in Your Car
Sorry Buddy
Sometimes the Funny Just Isn't There
Roast Beef Is Not For Puppies
Even The Dog Won't Eat It
CIBC Lost My Bank Account
Sales Clerks - Where Do They Get These Guys?

July 2007

It's Canada Day!
I Should Be Having a Rotten Day But I'm Happy
The Worst Smell Ever
The Great Timbit Incident
Window Cleaning: Great In Summer, Horrible In Winter
Kids Do the Funniest Things
Ignorance Is Bliss: Part One of Many
I Soiled My Armour I Was So Scared
My Secret Identity
Running With Geniuses

August 2007

The Worst Thing I've Ever Tasted
Ice Cream, We're Gonna Get Ice Cream!
When Model Railroading Goes Horribly Wrong
What's the Letter that Looks Like a Swiss Chalet?
That Bear Wants to Talk to You

September 2007

What Are The Odds?
Privacy? What's That?
At Least I Didn't Burn the Place Down
What I Really Want To Do Is Direct

November 2007

Ginger Snaps

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Back to the Main Page
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Author Reviews Index

2007-04-23T08:00:00.000-05:00

Looking for a new author to enjoy? Here is the complete list of my recommended authors and my reviews of their work. Author reviews are posted WEEKLY.

Stuart Woods - Why can I recommend Stuart Woods? His books are fast-paced and easy to read. His characters are likable and competent. His stories have just the right balance of suspense, drama, dialogue and humour.

Gregg Hurwitz - Why do I recommend Gregg Hurwitz? His novels are action-packed, emotionally engaging and riveting. His characters are rich and believable, and his plots don't insult the reader's intelligence. Gregg Hurwitz sets a new standard for suspense fiction.

Stan Pottinger - Why do I recommend Stan Pottinger? Simply put, his books are terrifying. Stan Pottinger knows how to shock, create dread, incite horror and twist the plot, all at the same time. His books aren't quite as pretzel-twisty as say, Harlan Coben (who I will review soon) but you will be surprised at the turns his stories take.

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Blogs of Note

2007-04-23T07:00:00.000-05:00

Looking for fresh and exciting new blogs to enjoy? Here is a list of my favorite blogs and why I enjoy reading them.

Dubious Quality - Bill Harris reports on the PC and Console games industry, posts links to very cool science and technology news, and tells terrific stories about his son, Eli 5.8 and his wife Gloria. Dubious Quality is informative and fun. It's my favorite overall blog.

Pork Tornado - Dusty Scott tells the most outrageous stories about his life. Dusty's stories never fail to be hilarious and are guaranteed to make you laugh out loud. It's my favorite humour blog. My only wish is that he would post more often, but when he does post, it's comedy gold.

My Mother Has a Lit Blog
Mom's blog includes logs of her reading of fiction literature, mostly contemporary, and brief reviews and suggestions for good books. Her blog is spoiler free. You can check it out here: Posthumouse's Lit Blog

Other Blogs of Note:

The Bookworm Blogger
Curious Business
Twenty Sided - Home of the DM of the Rings Webcomic
Carrying Contraption - an entire blog about handbags... brilliant!
Chess Strategies 101 - great for chess noobs like myself
Rock Ocean
Sports Buzz
Hatchiko - Tech News Worthy!
What U Did Today
Scotty's Boutique
Pollution and Its Effect on the Environment
Prethi Kulkarni
sean's Xanga site
Wormbrain
TV Shows from TV Addicts
Jerry Kobylt
Covers and Covers
Blogging From St. Louis
Rags To Race Cars
Blog Hints

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Portrait of the Artist as a Baby

2007-04-22T15:53:00.000-05:00

Even as a baby I insisted on telling stories in my own unique way.

We were driving in the car, probably the green Mercury Marquis and I was staring out the windshield with a big grin on my face.

"Sign!" I said. Over and over again, "Sign!" Even when there were no signs. My parents were beginning to wonder if I was retarded so they asked me to point to the sign that had me so excited. I pointed at the hood of the car. They explained that there was no sign on the hood of the car. I insisted there was. It took a while but eventually they got it. I was pointing at the sunshine reflecting off the hood of the car. Of course, being my father's son I was mispronouncing "shine" as "sign".

It was my first step towards dysfunctional communication, but not my last.

One day I was sitting in my high chair, pointing at the milk and saying, "Moon!" They knew what I wanted, but I insisted on calling it "moon." So they waited. Eventually frustration won out and I calmly and clearly said, "Milk!" So they gave it to me. But in my heart, it was still "moon".

Later I turned to more abstract forms of communication that were harder to ignore. One day my parents woke up to silence. This alarmed them, since I usually started my day by standing in my crib and screaming, "Hey Dad!" as loudly as possible. Silence meant something was wrong. They raced into my room, and found me calmly and quietly redecorating my crib. There were animals on the headboard of my "early 1970's green" crib and it seems I had decided they needed to be re-interpreted. Of course, I used the only malleable and adhesive medium I could find.

I used the contents of my diapers.

I showed off my masterpiece, pointing to each animal in it's new brown splendor and my re-imagining of it. I have no idea what I was thinking, but at the time, I was proud of my efforts. A little Monet or Dali in the making. My very own Sistine Chapel ceiling in digested applesauce, pureed carrots and mushy peas. I was stoked.

My parents were not amused.

Philistines!
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