Truth in advertising.

I probably should not like this as much as I do

From the internet:

After a tiring day, a commuter settled down in his seat and closed his eyes.

As the train rolled out of the station, the young woman sitting next to him pulled

out her cell phone and started talking in a loud voice:

"Hi sweetheart. It's Sue. I'm on the train".

"Yes, I know it's the six thirty and not the four thirty, but I had a long meeting".

"No, honey, not with that Kevin from the accounting office. It was with the boss".

"No sweetheart, you're the only one in my life".

"Yes, I'm sure, cross my heart!"

Fifteen minutes later, she was still talking loudly.

 

When the man sitting next to her had enough, he leaned over and said into the phone,

"Sue, hang up the phone and come back to bed."

 

Sue doesn't use her cell phone in public any longer.

Still a better love story than Twilight.

h/t Vox.

Church Squirrels.

This came from a coworker who sends me all sorts of humour through the E-mail, and who, I wish, would start flagging some of it NSFW, or stop sending me that stuff altogether.  This, however, is funny.


There were 5 churches in a small town:  the Presbyterian, the Baptist,
the Lutheran, the Catholic and the Jewish synagogue.
 
Each church and Synagogue was overrun with pesky squirrels.  One
day, the Presbyterian church  called a meeting to decide what to do
about the squirrels.
 
 After much prayer and consideration they determined that the
squirrels were predestined to be there and they shouldn't interfere
with God's divine will.

In the Baptist church the squirrels had taken up habitation in the
baptistery.   The deacons met and decided to put a cover on the
baptistery and drown the squirrels in it.  The squirrels escaped
somehow and there were twice as many there the next week.
 
The Lutheran church got together and decided that they were
not in a position to harm any of God's creation.  So, they
humanely trapped the squirrels and set them free a few miles
outside of town.  3 days later, the squirrels were back.

But the Catholic Church came up with the best and most
effective solution.  They baptised the squirrels and registered
them as members of the church.  Now they only see them on
Christmas , Ash Wednesday, Palm Sunday and Easter.
 
Not much was heard about the Jewish synagogue, but they took
one squirrel and had a short service with him called circumcision
and they haven't seen a squirrel on the property since.

Strange things said at home.

First, two things you never think you will actually end up saying or hearing, until you are married and have kids.

1,  Younger, discussing her lunch at school:  You know, boys will do crazy things for a slice of bacon.

2. Me, to Frodo: Frodo, no! In this house we do not throw second or third class relics down the stairs!

Lastly, (Risque alert) what a wife says, and what her husband thinks:

Puff, to me:  Bear, I want you to do me-

Me, inside:  (Yes!)

Puff:- a favour.

Me:  (Rats.)

I've said it before....

...and I'll say it again:  The best writing on television is to be found in the commercials.

In recent years we've had the now classic Old Spice guy, the M&M's ("So it's that kind of party!") and Heineken's brilliant The Entrance, (or as I like to call it, a documentary on my life).  Heineken returns with their ode to the handlebar mustache.



Oddly enough, this still doesn't inspire me to go out and drink beer, so in that respect it's a failure, but I appreciate the attempt.

I actually know the title and composer of the song playing in the background.  That makes me cool.  I'll say a rosary for anyone who knows the name and title without looking it up.

3.5 Timeouts Tuesday.

Written and posted during a fifteen minute break at work, ergo: brief.

1.

I revisited the YouTube video of Legoman in Space.  When I first saw it, it had a few hundred hits.  It is now well over 2,000,00 hits, and an argument has erupted in the comboxes over whether or not the video was faked.

2.

In LarryD's version of the 3.5 timeouts today, he shows some of the comments caught by his spam filter.  I checked my filter and found... nothing.  This blog is so bad, even spam can't stand it.

3.

I understand the Superbowl is happening soon.  Most of the excitement I've come across is over the commercials.

3.5

Any teenage kids or spambots out there:  When your parents were young in the ancient, magical and mystical  '80's, they thought this was way cool awesome.

The abject failure of the Canadian Educational system...

...is driven home to me every time I stand in the express checkout line, and see how many people cannot count to eight.

3.5 Time Outs Tuesday

1

Dead, gone, buried, forgotten- manhood, that is.  The stories of the Costa Concordia show that clearly enough.  Best quote from the news stories:

In the words of one newspaper account, “An Australian mother and her young daughter have described being pushed aside by hysterical men as they tried to board lifeboats.” If the men of the Titanic had lived to read such a thing, they would have recoiled in shame. The Titanic’s crew surely would have thought the hysterics deserved to be shot on sight — and would have volunteered to perform the service.

2

Tied to the first post, there is now a debate as to what killed manhood, or chivalry, as it is often called.  The usual suspects are the feminists.  Fair enough, but the attacks and insults they heaped upon men and their values only goes so far.  A woman may insult a man, but he need not abandon his values because of it.  No, in the end, chivalry's death was a suicide.  It is unmanly to say otherwise.

3

Watch this violinist react to a cell phone, if you have not seen this already.



3.5

G.K Chesterton quotation for today, and possibly tomorrow:

“It is an old story that, while we may need somebody like Dominic to convert the heathen to Christianity, we are in even greater need of somebody like Francis, to convert the Christians to Christianity.”

3.5 time outs Tuesday

LarryD started this. I thought I'd give this a shot, just this once.

1

My first (and possibly only) Sheavalanche has drawn to a close.  I had over four hundred hits in one day last week.  At one point, according to the stats, I had more hits in one hour than my daily average. I have had other spikes in bygone years.  A few times I have had hundreds of hits because of comments and links I have left in comboxes at Fr Z and NLM.  I stopped doing that, because it felt dishonest to use them to boost my stats.  I also had a huge hit spike - I believe it was bigger than when Shea linked to me- when Augustinus over at The Cafeteria is Closed linked to an article I wrote on Gather Us In.  

2

In Celebrity News:  Last week, the world was shocked at the news that Bryan Ferry, 66, lead singer of the band Roxy Music, had married a thirty year old woman, whom had previously dated his son.  Debate ranged aver whether it was creepier that he had broken the rock star/younger wife age rule (the youngest you are supposed to go is half your age plus one, which would have been thirty four in this case) or that his son had also dated her, and thus has most likely had sex with his step mom.

Really, who'd a thunk a man who sang a love song to a blow up doll would do something creepy?  Sing it man!  "I blew up your body/ But you blew my mind!"

3.

In Canadian Government News, there is... nothing.  Frankly, I love it when the government does squat.

3.5

One of the things I am not looking forward to in having Frodo is the prospect of being stuck watching more children's shows on television.  What happened to the good old days of cartoon critters dropping anvils and dynamite on each other?  Hacking up each other faces with razor blades?  That was hilarious!  These days, cartoons are such pallid, white bread, can't we all be nice to each other, and spoiled kids with understanding, patient parents, or kids with big heads and big eyes who speak like every little thing is the MOST. EXCITING. THING. EVER.  I'm looking at you, Dora and Diego.  And, from another show, I'm still waiting to see an episode entitled Caillou Gets a Whuppin'.

That's it for today.  Tomorrow I hope to do another post on the home altar.

Sensitivity training

A note I sent to one of the managers yesterday regarding our training pamphlet on the new currency and its security features.  (For those who don't know, Canada is issuing new polymer fifty and one hundred dollar bank notes, mainly to try and deter counterfeiting.  I don't much care, as long as they keep the Mr Spock five.)

Dear xxxx

While the photocopies you handed me on the subject of security features in the new currency were useful, I found the instructions a little vague when it came to the subject of informing a customer that the currency they have handed over is not of the realm, and I believe it possible- nay, likely- that the other bookstore associates and cashiers have the same problem.  Fortunately, resident expert Senator Vreenak has helpfully supplied us with a video explaining how to sensitively and courteously explain to a customer that their money may quite possibly have been forged.




Feel free to share this information with the rest of the staff.

You are welcome.

bear

It's the most overdone time of the year

From Straight No Chaser, the guys who brought us The Twelve Days of Christmas, comes another soon to be classic, The Christmas Can Can!

This is a school trip?

About a week ago, I was woken up by Puff.  "Here," she said, thrusting a pen and my chequebook into my hands.  "Sign this cheque.  It's for Younger's class trip."  Bleary eyed and less than half awake, I signed my name, or I think I signed my name, somewhere in the region of the line.  I then went back to sleep, not knowing how much, or for what kind of trip I had just paid.

As it turns out. the trip is connected to her English class.  Ah! you think.  She must be going to one of Shakespeare's plays, or some such.  Sorry, but no.  You would be wrong in making such an assumption.  The book they are studying is Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and the trip is to an actual chocolate factory.  Sadly, the charming Oompa Loompas will not be singing little songs giving the children and their parents sage and common sense advice as they ironically punish and purge the children of their vices.  Oh no.  That would be something worthwhile.  Instead, they are going to the real deal, where they will be shown how chocolate is made, (by machine) then they will be allowed to sample some chocolate, (the fresh made kind, not the kind that has been sitting in a warehouse, then a truck, then a shelf, for weeks) so they are all nice and wired by the time the return home to their overworked and under loved parents.  This, I am sure, will grant them tremendous insight into the literary world of the book.

I have only two questions: 1.  Just how much money was on that cheque I signed? and 2. Where the heck were these trips when I was a kid?

How bazaar

I see by my church bulletin that it's bazaar time.   Across North America, church basements everywhere will soon be hosting the annual Christmas Bazaar.  Tables will groan under the weight of home baked goodies (some of them more like home baked baddies,  but for the most part alright), goods knitted by the parish grandmothers, and the white elephant table, filled with the sort of stuff that people could not sell at their garage sales.  And there will be the craft tables.

I used to try and sell my woodworking at bazaars in years gone by.  I was... less than successful.  It is a hard way to make money.  First, you spend a lot of time and effort making speculation items, which is a way of saying you make a ton of stuff in the hope that a pound of it will sell.  You have to pay for the wood and the finishes and tools that you need to make the stuff, plus the cost of the table, plus the cost of gas and so on.   I think, in the end, after crunching all the numbers, I was a little bit better than even, but not much.

I faced three major problems: Myself, competition, and other people.

My first failing was my inability to predict what people would buy any given year.  One year, I sold a bunch of spin tops.  The next year I came back loaded with tops, and didn't sell a single one.  I hauled the tops around for four years, then sold them all again.  I could make a lot of good quality products, but if no one wanted to buy them, they would not sell.

The second problem was my competition.  I did not- and still don't- want to admit that I was in competition with a large manufacturer of cheap wooden furniture (let's just call it "Nordic Surprise"), but that was the reality of the situation.  I would make small furniture items,  shelves and such, out of real wood with solid joinery, and people would come by and say things like "I can get something just like that at Nordic Surprise for a lot less."  I could try and point out that, as a matter of fact, Nordic surprise does not sell anything like this, as this will last and theirs will disintegrate shortly after purchase, but it never worked.  The saw the similarity in shape and the dissimilarity in price, and took their money elsewhere.  To be competitive with Nordic Surprise, I would have to pay myself roughly ten cents an hour.

The third problem was other people.  Sartre once famously noted that Hell is other people, and anyone who has ever worked retail knows the truth of that statement intimately.  In addition to people who thought my prices were outrageous, I faced a litany of other problems. all stemming from the attitudes and actions of the people to whom I was trying to sell my goods.  One year, I was at a bazaar at a church that was next to an old folks home, so much of our customers would be coming from the home.  I hoped to cash in on nostalgia and made a bunch of old style wooden toys.  It sort of worked, and sort of backfired.  The people that came by fell into roughly three categories:  nice old people, lonely old people, and bitter old people.  The conversations went like this:

Nice old person:  "I haven't seen one of those in years!  I used to have so much fun playing with it with my friends.  My grandchildren will love it.  I'll take two."  It goes without saying, these were my favourite of the three.

Lonely old person:  "I haven't seen one of those in years!  I used to have so much fun playing with it with my best friend.  We were such good friends, we did everything together.  I remember the time we went down to the creek and etc etc.  But then he moved away to Calgary, and I didn't hear much from him after that, but I did hear that his son got into trouble with the law, which is strange, because he was such a nice fellow.  It just goes to show you never can tell, can you?  I was saying just the other day that..."  I try to be polite, but while they are talking, other potential customers are walking up to my table, but unwilling to interrupt the conversation, walk away.  In the end, the lonely old person walks away making no purchase.

Bitter old person, almost always male, usually sounds like Homer Simpson's dad, and you can spot him quickly, because the first thing he will mention is price:  "I haven't seen one of those in fifty years! You used to be able to buy three of them for a nickle!  What are you charging?"  Me:  "That's ten dollars."  Him:  "Ten bucks?!  I wouldn't give you a quarter!  That's what's wrong with you punks these days!  You roll out of bed and think someone owes you a dollar!  See that?"  Points at his hand. "See it?  Know what that is?  It's a callous!  Know how I got it?  Hard work! That's something you punks don't know nothin' about!"  At this point, I am willing to pay him money to get away from my table. 

I could write a book about the rude and stupid things people walking past my table have said to me.  "Do you enjoy deliberately making ugly things?"  Answer:  "Yes.  care to pose?"  (I can do rude, too.) (I wonder if that was a mortal sin?  I am supposed to turn the other cheek, after all.)

Another, speaking about my carved walking sticks:  "I can get sticks like that on any walk through the forest."

"Really?  Pre-carved walking sticks just drop from the trees in your forest?"

"Oh, the carving is nothing."

At this point I had to resist the urge to leap over my table, grabbing a chisel as I did so, and plunge my chisel repeatedly into her forehead, seeking, in vain, for a brain.

A constant refrain from the people passing my table was:  "Oh, your stuff is just lovely, but it's too expensive for me."  Average price was ten to twenty dollars.  I thought my prices were ridiculously low for the work that went into them, but, as I said, I was up against Nordic Surprise and the local dollar store. To the would be customers, my prices were ridiculously high, though not as high as other, more successful vendors.

At the last Christmas bazaar/craft show I did, I was surprised to see a cousin across the hall from me.  She was selling angels and wise men, quite large, as well as a smaller items.  She had assembled parts bought from a craft store with a hot glue gun, then spray painted the whole thing gold.  I imagine the entire process took maybe five, maximum ten minutes per piece.  I noticed quite a few people carrying her stuff around.  During a lull in the crowd, I went over to her and spoke to her.  "How're you doing today?"  I asked.

"Not so good," she said.  "I've only sold about two thousand worth of stuff."

For me, a day when I sold five hundred was reason to pump my fist in the air and cheer out loud.  I looked at her table.  Her prices were huge.  The large angels were going for around seventy five bucks.  The wise men were going for around one fifty for the set.  People were buying them, one after another.  The people who passed my table and said "Fifteen dollars for (that thing you spent four hours building out of solid wood, which, with a little care, will last for years and may even become a family heirloom, passed down through the generations) seems a little steep," were going to her table and saying "A hundred and fifty for (something shiny you glued together in five minutes from plastic and paper parts bought at a store and which will probably not last out this Christmas season so I will have to replace it next year)?  Sounds perfectly reasonable to me.  I'll take two."  Don't get me wrong:  I actually respect her.  She did the one thing I never could do, and figured out what people were willing to buy at a price that made making and selling it worthwhile.  It still rankled.  I was a skilled craftsman.  She was a women with a glue gun and a Michael's credit card, and she kicked me to the curb.    It was what the people wanted: shiny crap that won't last a year, so they can go to another show next year, and buy something else. 

I could go on about bazaars and craft shows.  For any readers out there planning on going to one:  Browse as much as you please, but, if you don't plan on buying anything, don't waste the vendor's time.  Compliments are nice.  Cash is better.  Remember that while you may be comparing the stuff the vendors have made with their own hands with something available at the local stores which was made in some distant Crapistan by some five year old chained to a machine,  to them there is no comparison.  Never make that comparison out loud.  Remember this is an adult trying to get some cash, often to support or at least get a little extra for  themselves and their family. Treat them as such.  Some vendors are open to negotiations of price, but don't be insulting.  If you see something you sort of like, but would like something slightly different, feel free to ask the vendor if they could make one with adaptations.  They made the one you almost like; they can usually make another one more to your liking.   Usually they will ask for a deposit so they can buy the materials.  Don't expect the deposit back if you change your mind, as they will be stuck with the materials and no guaranteed sale.  Be friendly, and enjoy yourself.  As I said, be friendly to them, but remember, they are there for money.

Zombie Apocalypse Comes to Toronto 2011

"Twas upon an afternoon dreary, a day unhallowed by any Benevolent Power, unsanctified by any Kind and Loving God, when younger and I did descend the slopes of a swelling summit, where once stood a forest primeval, and a once bubbling brook didst babble, now long buried, unto a once pleasant vale, now a blasted heath, where unspeakable beings roamed freely, having loosed the chains of Dark Death.  It was the day of the Zombie Walk.

Intermingled freely amongst these hideous wretches were ordinary folk of all colours, speaking in many languages and accents, seemingly unaware of the perils they placed themselves as they walked the depths of this vale once pleasant, armed only with their cameras, (some carrying many, as though capturing images would save their brains from the jaws of living death) amongst these creatures new awakened from their Stygian slumber.

These hideous wretches, called forth from their cthonic damnation, their pitiful sorrows doubly doubled that they now walked once again within this vale of tears, didst gibber and moan as they wandered without aim, their arms swinging uselessly, like the pendulums of clocks long broken, as they sought to slake their undead hunger in a feast of living brains.

The dread contagion spread without respect of love or wealth or station in life.  Who can say what unspeakable rites summoned these poor, suffering souls from the kindness of their gentle graves, that called the peaceful dead, still garbed in their burial clothes, now stained with the stench and filth of the crypt, to walk once again amongst the living, or from what old book of forgotten lore such a rite, best forgotten was learned anew? Yea, even those who did live a sanctified life where left unspared by this unliving damnation, this mockery of life.



Even in death, this wimpled nun still cares for her charges, and binds them under the iron discipline of her steel ruler.


So far has spread this vile contagion, this hideous scourge that blasts both the living and the dead, not even Hamburglar and Mayor McCheese- yea, even Ronald himself was struck by it (though Ronald was having a smoke when I took the picture, and therefore is not amongst those he named friends whilst he lived, drew breath, and ate food that was fast.)

And then there was this guy.

In sacred truth, no idea have I of what he was,or whom, but he did appear to my unschooled eyes to be most cool.  A shudder holds me quivering in fear at the mere thought of the terrible curse that must have been laid upon his flesh, and the dark mage deeply learned in the hideous and unspeakable arts who spoke such a malediction.

With my own life did I escape narrowly, though Younger I left behind, and she now counts herself among the undead, as shall be seen this All Hallow's Eve.

Somehow, Satan Got Behind Me

Found a YouTube clip of one my my favourite hours of television ever, an episode of Millennium.

The background of the clip:  Four demons are sitting in a coffee shop discussing their favourite methods of claiming souls, a la C.S. Lewis' The Screwtape Letters.  In this clip, (for which embedding has been disabled) one of the demons explains how humans have reached a point where they damn themselves out of force of habit.  Watch.  Enjoy.

http://youtu.be/sabPftUnjkU

I have an idea for a new story

Some children walk through a closet and find themselves in a city on the Canadian border which was once a centre of industrial and oil refining activity; where the people are friendly, eat doughnuts and cross the border to do their shopping.  I'll call it "The Chronicles of Sarnia".

Heard at work

These are the sort of things that pass for humour at work.

***

A: Anybody know anything about the new assistant assistant manager?

B:  Hasn't done much of anything yet.  According to his credentials he's worked at a few other bookstores, and has also worked for x and y and z publishing companies.

C:  Someone with relevant experience in the industry?  That doesn't sound like the kind of manager we'd hire.

A:  He looks young for a guy to have had that many jobs.  I have contacts with a few of those places.  I'll see what I can find out.

B:  I'll call a few of the publishing companies.

***

Old hand, to a temp newbie:  I can't help you with that.  You have to talk to Al.

Newbie:  Which one's Al?

Old hand:  You've seen him.  Ugly guy.  Looks like a douche bag.

Newbie pauses for a second, thinking.  Then the light goes on:  Oh, him.

***

Coworker:  All I want is to drink until my liver explodes, I fall into a coma and die a slow lingering death swimming in my own excrement.  Is that too much to ask?

***

A;  What's with the ambulance and police?

B: D.  had heart palpitations.

C:  No way!  D.  has a heart condition?

A: No way!  D.  has a heart?



***

X:  If you keep smoking, you'll die.

Y:  Death is only an issue to those who aren't already in Hell.

***

Q:  Did you see (NDP party leader) Jack Layton's funeral?

R:  No, but I approved of it, and heartily wish more politicians would have one, soon.

***

C;  Did you make the calls? 

A;  Yeah.  Turns out he got fired.

C: Fired?  From which one?

B:  All of them.

C:  Seriously? 

B:  Yup.  One of my contacts broke out laughing when I said we'd hired him.

C:  Sighs.  Now that sounds like someone we'd hire.

I can beat that!

Mark Shea thinks posting Lawrence Welk is a threat!  Ha!  I sneer at him and make my own threat!

People of Earth!  Give me two millllllllion dollars or I will post this video every day!  Twice!




And for good measure, I will toss in The Shat:



If the money is not in my Caymen Island Accounts by midnight, not only shall I continue to post these, I will be forced to unleash Leonard Nimoy's Proud Mary!  Mwahahahahaha! Look on me, and suffer fear, and nausea! May God have mercy on your ears!

For those of you who wondered...

...what Puff meant in her comment in the post below when she mentioned my father, chickens and Italy, I here reprint the earlier post telling the story in full.

Warning: the following may be considered gross.

Let me tell you a story. This is how Bear met Puff. It is true, though few believe it.

I was sitting at a table in a pub at my university with some friends and acquaintances one day, drinking tea and coffee and talking. The topic of conversation had turned to tales of what our parents had done during the war. Everyone was chipping in stories.

I was going to tell a story about my father (who had served in Italy and the Netherlands) and his time in the Spaghetti League. One time he was on patrol, and likely somewhat drunk. (He often spoke of being "bombed" in Italy and I don't believe he was always referring to airplanes dropping ordnance.) While wandering around he found himself standing in a chicken coop and wondering how exactly he had got there. As he watched the chickens squawking around him, the idea struck him that chicken would make a tasty switch from the usual Army fare. The only problem was how to kill the chickens, when the only weapon he had was his Tommy gun. But, being somewhat tipsy, he figured he was a marksman. He planned to simply aim at their heads, knock a few off, and carry the carcasses back to base.

At this point you have to understand that the preferred weapon of the British/Canadian forces and Al Capone was really not designed for fowl. It was also, contrary to what you see in movies, very inaccurate. Dad once said it really excelled at killing cows. You just aimed at the front half and cut what you wanted off the back half.

So he opened fire. Predictably, things did not go as planned. His plan failed to take into avvount both the Tommy gun's innaccuracy and the chickens' unwillingness to simply stand still  while someone was shooting at them.  He kept hitting chickens square on and they would disintegrate in a puff of feathers. Well, determined to have something other than meat in a tin, he just switched his gun over to full automatic and just began sweeping the coop, back and forth, back and forth, chickens squawking, exploding, feathers flying- until he finally had a few that were more or less intact, which he carried off.

This, as I said, was the story I was about to tell. But before I could the woman sitting next to me (who was the friend of a mutual friend also at the table and not someone I knew very well) chirped up with a story of her own. It was about the time her mother, who was born and raised in Italy, was going out back to feed the chickens. Before she got there she noticed a drunken Canadian standing in her coop, and while she watched him, wondering what he was doing, he raised his weapon and began machine gunning the entire coop, before he carried off her two best laying hens. She rushed off to tell her father what had happened. "Curse him!" growled her father. "May that man's sins be visited upon his son!"

My immediate reaction was: I'd better find another story.

And that's how Bear met Puff.

Because this is a Catholic blog I'll try to give this story a moral.

Here goes: The Lord works in mysterious ways.

He also has a very odd sense of humour.