Tag Archives: humour
Adages and Subtractages
Live your life like there’s no tomorrow…because one day, you’ll be right! (not mine)
Never put off until…
The meaning of Life is only unfathomable to those without a dictionary.
Philosophy is the art of sounding profound while saying things of no practical significance…much like Consulting.
If genius is 99% perspiration and 1% inspiration, have antiperspirants made us idiots?
The quality of mercy is not strained, because it knows to bend at the knees.
Love is like a red, red rose… to get to the good stuff, you have to go through a lot of pricks.
The majority of people outnumber everyone else.
Dentists live hand-to-mouth.
Asking a mute for sound reasoning is like asking the blind to see your point.
Concerns about political correctness never seem to focus on the “correctness” part.
When I want an objective opinion, I’ll talk to my microscope.
Cross-border puppetry – Puppet Up!
As many of you well know, I am interested in puppetry and am currently working as a writer on a sketch comedy television show in development called SomeTV! that involves both human (fleshies) and puppet actors (felties). More on this later.
In the meantime, I am also striving to get an irreverent show called Puppet Up! to come to Canada (more specifically Toronto) and perform. A product of Henson Alternative, these people have taken the inside humour of the Muppet Show and ratcheted it up a thousand-fold.
I’ll let them describe the show:
What happens when Henson puppeteers are unleashed? You get a new breed of intelligent nonsense that is “Puppet Up: Uncensored” – a live, outrageous, comedy, variety show for adults only. Enjoy an unpredictable evening when six talented, hilarious, expert puppeteers will improvise songs and sketches based on your suggestions! With a motley group of characters brought to life by the world renowned puppeteers of The Jim Henson Company, this is not your average night at the improv and it is definitely not for children. But all others are welcome to enjoy the uninhibited anarchy of live puppet performance as never seen before!
Strangely, it seems the show is bashful and so I am asking for everyone’s help to encourage them to come to Toronto with a social media campaign entitled: Bring Puppet Up to Toronto. (How’s that for imaginative!?)
I’ve set up a Facebook page that I ask you to “Like” and “Share” with your friends, colleagues, and that guy you met once who glommed onto your page when you weren’t looking.
As well, please visit the Puppet Up! Facebook page and let them know they should visit Toronto…even if you don’t live here.
And if you follow me on Twitter, please retweet and favourite the relevant posts…most of the other posts are completely irrelevant.
As Animal is my witness, I will wear them down and they will either have to come to Toronto or file an injunction!
And even if you don’t do any of these things (I feel tears coming on), then at least enjoy these YouTube videos…they are very funny and you should get something for having read this far.
Thanks.
12 Awkward Days of Christmas – Miskreant Puppets
Puppet Up! Hit the Streets of Edinburgh
Neil Patrick Harris and Nathan Filion in Doctor’s Office – Neil’s Puppet Dreams
Where do babies come from – Puppet Up!
For my friends who are parents
Ding Dong! The kid’s at school!
Oh, so cool that it’s a rule.
Ding Dong! The little shit’s in school.
Wake up, tiny fool.
Rub your eyes, finish your gruel.
Wake up, you snarky brat, there’s school.
Summer’s done, it’s time to go,
Grab your books before it snows,
Move your ass before the school bell tolls.
Ding Dong! And hidey-ho,
Sing it high, sing it low.
Let’em know, the little shit’s in school!
(Image is property of owner and is used here without permission because I’m old school.)
The next level
Really? What a surprise. More stairs.
Why does getting the next level always involve an uphill climb?
Not once in my life have I ever approached the entry point to the next level and been given the opportunity to walk down an incline or flight of stairs (except in a department store).
In a world of supposed ups and downs, you would think that half of the trips to the next level would involve moving downhill and yet, not for me (and I expect you, too).
Sure, you may be thinking, any move to the next level involves adding energy to push you from one state to another (we’re all physicists here), but walking downstairs takes energy too, you know. Lift the leg, move it forward, put it down. Energy, energy, energy.
If anyone has any insight on this dilemma, I would love to hear it…but don’t put yourself out…the universe is already doing enough of that for both of us.
A Bug(gy) Life
I run toward bees, not away…and they me, it seems
There is a scene early in the film Ace Ventura: Pet Detective where Ace calls out to all of the animals living in his apartment and they swarm from every crevice to give him the world’s biggest group hug (scene was totally ripped off in Evan Almighty). Well, every once in a while (aka daily), I feel the same way with insects.
Insects—and here I also include arachnids—love me. I don’t know why, they just do.
The best I can figure is that there is something in my personal chemistry—blood, sweat, breath, pheromones—that drives bugs wild.
When I go to the local beach to work—hard life, I know—I cannot sit on a bench for much more than an hour before I become a buffet for biting flies. And when I get home from the local park or ravine, I invariably find a couple small beetle hitchhikers somewhere on my clothing. That I have not yet contracted Lyme disease eludes me, although I am grateful, because that shit’s nasty.
When my grandmother’s seniors’ complex became host to a bed bug invasion, I became the canary in a coal mine. After her place had been sprayed, it was my duty to sit on her couch and see if the fumigation had worked. If there was a bed bug within 1 km of her apartment, it would find me within 10 minutes and leave its mark as a large red welt. I was bed bug fly paper.
As luck would have it, I also seem to attract spiders, which is fine as long as they focus their attentions on the various flies and other critters and not on me. So far, so good.
Perhaps this life-long attention from creepy crawlies has made me immune to the sociological ick-factor and has in fact turned into a fascination with them, as my many photographic blog posts would attest. In short, I like bugs. (I’m not quite ready for a love connection.)
On one of my recent walks through a local ravine, I ran into a young gentleman who also wandered the woods with a camera. As the conversation proceeded, we shared our interests—his was birds. When I told him mine was bugs, he was confused. It made no sense to him that anyone would be interested in insects. He wasn’t questioning my sanity, just my logic.
Other people who wander with me, however, do question my sanity as I approach a flower bed covered in bees rather than run the other way as they do. Or as I walk into a swarm of dragonflies rather than swat them away as a nuisance.
I wish I could explain my interest. As I believe with all other life forms, I believe there is an inherent beauty in the specialization of bugs to their environments—their shapes, decorations, behaviours. It probably doesn’t hurt that they will also stay still when I’m trying to examine them, rather than scatter as most other animals will.
Having recently moved into a basement apartment (as mentioned in the previous post), I will have the opportunity to test the limits of my fascination…and undoubtedly of my camera lenses. Should be fun!
Ironically, I co-wrote a comedy show that became known as Bed Bugs & Beyond
How to know if you live in a basement…
While taking off your t-shirt, you have punched the ceiling.
You open the refrigerator door in the middle of August not to feel cooler but to find your shoes.
You instinctively flinch while passing under bridges on the highway.
Your ears pop whenever you ride a double-decker bus.
You get vertigo while climbing a step ladder.
You can tell the make, model and year of a car by its hub caps.
You just found out those sit ups are actually called crunches.
Your refrigerator is nothing but crisper.
Your neighbour’s schnauzer knows its raining before you do.
(Image is property of owner and is used here without permission because I couldn’t crawl out to ask.)
My important thoughts on narcissism
Ancient Greek algae specialist Narcissus
Makes complete sense when I engage in it, but it eludes me why anyone else would.
Narcissism is so perfect that even the Americans and British agree on its spelling.
Back in the day, a “selfie” was a form of masturbation. Today, it is a…hunh…how ironic.
Interestingly, the actual mythical figure of Narcissus never seemed to complain that the vision he loved was of the opposite hand to him.
How obvious for Narcissus to name narcissism after himself.
The original title of The Chronicles of Narnia was The Chronicles of Narcissus, but had to be changed when the children could never get beyond admiring their wardrobe.
Contrary to popular belief, narcissism is not a sign of personal insecurity…at least, it isn’t in me.
An alternative version of the myth of Narcissus involves an identical twin brother who drowned. Turns out Narcissus was a bit of a prick, but an imaginative one when it came to the inquest.
(Image is property of Caravaggio, but he wasn’t answering when I called to see if it was okay to use the image.)
Male enhancement?
Just saw a male enhancement ad in my spam filter—honest, that’s where I found it—and it suggested you could be hard enough to crack an egg.
Really? An egg? Are they building Kevlar eggs now?
I can’t get a dozen eggs home from the grocery store without cracking at least one. And with the exception of one trip from the grocery store, none of those incidents involved my penis (don’t ask).
Isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement for those thinking of having (more) kids, either.
I just picture a penis so hard that the sperm ejaculates at supersonic speed, literally obliterating any unsuspecting ovum it might meet just north of the cervix.
Seriously, you could hurt somebody with that thing.
Remove your tonsils and cauterize the wound at the same time.
And then there’s the controversy over the long-gun registry. Hair triggers. The founding of the National Penis Association with Long Dong Silver as its spokesgenital.
I think I’ll take a pass thanks. For everyone’s safety.
(No actual eggs were harmed in the telling of this story.)
The word was cat – an exercise
“Cat killer,” Anthony thought to himself, ruefully. He was now going to be forever known as the cat killer of Borden Street.
To be fair, it was an accident. At worst, negligent manslaughter. Catslaughter?
Yes, if Anthony had gotten his car tuned up as he’d been promising himself for weeks, he might have noticed the strange sound emanating from his motor. But a “rowr” sounds an awful lot like a “rawr”, so it was hardly his fault.
Why would a cat crawl on the engine block in the first place? And it’s not like Anthony held its tail against the fan belt.
No. It was a mercy killing. Clearly, living in a house with 17 other cats had taken its toll on Snowball. She had lost the will to live and decided to end her days.
It was Old Lady MacGillvary’s fault. Nobody needs 18…17 cats. A sign of mental defectiveness on a grand scale.
Hell, Anthony was lucky it wasn’t the old woman herself who flung around his engine like a piñata on heroin.
Anthony liked cats. Well, he tolerated them. He’d never killed a cat before. Two dogs, a ferret and a budgerigar, sure, but never a cat.
It was a bad year for pets in his neighbourhood.
As he recalled, the Great Dane was an automotive accident, his hood still bearing the scars, and the chow was proof that you shouldn’t buy electric garden lamps from a guy in a van on the highway.
The ferret shouldn’t have been loose while he mowed the lawn, and why the bird was anywhere near his barbecue while he was using his leaf blower is anyone’s guess.
It had gotten so bad that Anthony had to beg off a trip to the petting zoo with his nephew for fear of dropping a horse on the kid.
You’d think Anthony’s job as a taxidermist would come in handy here, but apparently a stuffed pet is considered poor compensation for a loss.
The point was moot where Snowball was concerned. All the King’s horse and all the King’s men, you know?
Oh well, Anthony shrugged, no use crying over eviscerated Persian. If he took the highway to work, most of the fur would probably fall out and cooked flesh is so much easier to extract from metal.
Anthony turned the motor over, listening for the familiar “rawr”, and then put the car in reverse.
Thump.
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