The Enemy Within.

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I have an internal organ. Actually, it turns out that I had more of them than I’d thought and at least one of them is broken. Further, despite looking through my wallet and the mass of papers in the kitchen cabinet over the sink, I could not find a warranty for this organ.

Currently, I’m at war with my gall bladder.

For those of you who don’t know, the gall bladder is well…a bladder that contains, or may contain, something. My guess is that ‘something’ is a tiny Garden Weasel that can cause immense intestinal pain at four in the morning.

When this happened, I awoke and calmly assessed the situation. I dispassionately listed my obvious symptoms and then looked at the best alternatives to resolve the issue. Under no circumstances did I run downstairs, stand in the doorway of the bathroom and go “BLEEEAAARRRGGGHHH!” as tears streamed down my cheeks.

After not moaning like an orgasmic baboon I realized that something was wrong and decided to head to the hospital. To place this in perspective, it needs to be noted that I don’t live in the middle of nowhere; I live on the outskirts of nowhere – to get to the middle of nowhere I need to put the keys in the ignition. Under normal circumstances, the drive from my house to the hospital takes about 30 minutes but this was a little different. This trip alternated between speeds of 160kph when I was merely in excruciating pain and lows of 2kph when I thought that my torso explosion was imminent.

While the next part is a blur I do remember that they gave me morphine – oh yes, Jim; morphine.

Sweet, sweet morphine… If you haven’t tried it, you haven’t lived.

While I don’t know all the highly confusing facts or truth about what happened, apparently my gall bladder is manufacturing aluminum ingots. Deep down in my guts, these ingots will randomly explode when exposed to the delicious pork gravy in my blood.

Such an event, the gall bladder attack, is a glandular act of war that has no proper remedy except to have the rotter torn loose from my meaty assemblage. I will request, in homage to kung-fu movies, to see it while it still beats. If it beats…I’m not a doctor.

There will be tests, weeping and blood. Well, tests for sure.

Oh, and all this cost me 13$ for some Percocet. Eat it, America.

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The Sinister Sunday.

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Unlike most of you, I don’t have that much in common with god. I have never impregnated a carpenter’s wife by remote control. You want loaves and fishes? Get your own. I’ve also never leveled a city because I didn’t like the way some of the folks get jiggy. But like The Jeebus Daddy, (acts of transubstantiation notwithstanding) I do take Sundays off.

And on the seventh day, I slacked the hell off. My slack-assery will become more evident as you examine the product. Without further biblical reference, let’s hit the Sinister Six; those news stories from the last little while that I enjoyed, but not enough to warrant a full post.

1. In Arkansas, six nuns from an order known as The Army of Mary were excommunicated from the Catholic Church because their leader claimed to be possessed by the Virgin Mary. Normally, I eschew these kinds of things, but the Church has rules and they don’t want to come off looking stupid. If they don’t draw a line here people might start believing in really weird stuff like people rising from the dead. Wait…what?

2. Michael Vick answered the question “is he really that stupid?” by getting caught reefer-laden while being court supervised. But let’s look at this for a minute. He’s home with a lot of money and a great deal of free time on his hands, what did you expect? At least when he’s floating through his THC-fueled haze, he’s unlikely to kill anything. He’s the victim here; he’s taking reasonable steps to ensure that he’s a threat nothing more than a two-pound bag of Cheetos and now the court sticks him with this. If we don’t treat him more carefully, he might go out and do something unreasonable.

3. The makers of Miller and Coors beer brands have united to better challenge the competition. Now, as a Canadian beer consumer, I can only assume that the real outcome of this will be that all the cats can now whiz into the same vats.

4. JK Rowling, apparently in the fear of having a week when she is not featured in the news, announced in a reading that the wizard Dumbledore is gay. I have enormous respect for what Rowling has accomplished, and her words on this are better than mine:

“Oh, my god,” Rowling concluded with a laugh, “the fan fiction.”

Eeeeeewwwwww…and, yes, I’m the one person who’s never read a Harry Potter book.

5. Hillary Clinton (D – Catch me if you can) announced that people should eat more carrots. In addition to making her sound like the Field Marshall for the Army of the Nanny State, it also misses a more pressing concern; the things that her husband asks people to put in their mouths.

6. The Anglican Church has reached some sort of compromise to keep the British and American wings of the assembly together after having differing practices on homosexuality for a number of years. The result is apparently less moderate and tolerant than was hoped.

There’s not much funny here, and I realize I’m taking a double whammy at religion. It does make me think of that Biblical story where Jesus sent away all those people who smelled funny, had big noses or used the word ‘irregardless’ since its not really a word at all. He was like that, you know.

The Sinister Single.

Normally, my weekend posts offer a nod to six decidedly less lame offerings. I have been away from TRE for about three weeks and I read several very good posts that I wanted to write about – some of them were even free of nudity. However, what also happened in the last three weeks was the delivery of my copy of Antisocial Commentary: From the Secret Files of the Mattress Police. As you may know, this book was written by my blogger pimp, Diesel who still considers that name to be a good idea. Diesel also runs the site splattered across my sidebars: Humor-blogs.com.

I don’t normally even entertain the idea of doing reviews (see what I did there?). In this case, however, I think that I probably should. As a caveat, very few things make me laugh; I’m a tough room. If you can force a snicker out of me, then you did good.

Diesel’s book is funny. I laughed out loud every few pages and I chuckled more often than not between every flip. More importantly, the book is very, very readable. To collect 150+ pages from hundreds of posts and have it flow from start to finish is quite a feat. All in all, this is a good read and an anthology worthy of purchase.

The number of chapters devoted to hard core pornography and scrotal abuse were really out of place, but I understand they’ve been taken out of the current version.

Good work, Diesel.

 

 

 

 

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You’ll Never Read This.

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There’s great sanctity for free speech in my house. Well, at least in my house when I’m alone because the lovely and erudite Mrs. Sinister has a long list of things I can’t say in front of the kids. Oddly, many of the prohibited phrases have her as their subject.

But barring this, and my X-rated poetry about Brit TV chef Nigella Lawson, we hold the tenet of free expression in high regard. Among consenting adults very little is too offensive, too risqué, too inflammatory or too obviously naughty to be censored.

This protection does not extend to things that are too boring. I will vociferously defend your right to claim that you should be permitted to form amorous relations with Hoffmann’s Two-Toed Sloth. However, if you bore me while doing it, I’ll plant you in the muck like a gangland snitch.

Despite my best intentions and several hours mumbling to myself at the mall I have violated this first principle of not being exceptionally boring.

What I mean by this is that I have decided to write about Canadian politics. I can actually hear you leaving through my interweb tubes…come back! I can be funny and write about Canadian politics!

Hey guess what? The Prime Minister farted! He farted in the Privy Council! Isn’t that hilarious? In the Privy Council? Privy…he did it in the Privy Council…that’s like a joke…sort of. Damn it.

Anyway, this past week had by-elections for three seats in the federal Parliament from the province of Québec. It occurs to me that the previous sentence is about ten hours worth of civics lessons for many of you but these elections were somewhat important. At very least they were indicative. So are plague buboes, incidentally.

Canada has generationally swung back and forth between the Liberal Party of Canada and the subtly unnerving synthesis party that is now simply known as the Conservative Party of Canada. It’s like The Blob in navy blue suits.

Since 1900, the Liberals have been the most successful elected, national political party in the world. They win and they win a lot. The Conservatives in their various forms have only elected two Prime Ministers into office with majorities since 1958. When this last happened in 1984, they went from the biggest electoral win ever to the new leader losing all but two seats and locking herself in the bathroom with a bottle of Jägermeister.

The Conservative Prime Minister, Stephen Harper is, according to his wife, and early Soong-type android. Stéphane Dion (yes, he’s Céline’s dad) is the current leader of the Liberals, who are in the Official Opposition against the Conservative Party who form the government with the most seats in Parliament, but not a majority of them.

This happens, because unlike the US, we have more than two parties. To be fair, these extra parties are probably kidding and just don’t have the heart to tell us despite the fact that many people vote for them. However, they do keep the Grits and the Tories (a reader from Kentucky just died) from forming the majority needed to guarantee a full, five-year term. There has been no serious prospect for a majority government since 2000, when the two conservative parties got tired of polling each other’s electorate.

So this by-election thingy is a big deal. Any shift in electability puts the political class on election watch. Ever see the sleazy guys at a bar watching the girls drink in hopes that they will get so gooned that they put out? It’s exactly (and I mean exactly!) like that.

The province of Québec is a mystical land full of highways and things near highways. This at least is my experience driving through it. Québec is also French, and French is Serious Business. The Liberals picked Mr. Dion because (it is speculated) he’d win Québec. He’s smart, he’s a gifted policy wonk and he’s very, very Quebecois.

So of course, he lost all three seats. To add insult to injury, they even lost to the New Democratic Party, a group of pseudo-socialists whose official color is orange.

Orange? What were you thinking? How do you vote for orange? The NDP claim it’s because they, like most of Québec, are against the Afghan War. I think it’s because they handed out free flats of Labatt’s 50 and were secretly funded by the citrus lobby.

So we’re now faced with the specter of another election in which Canada’s leaders will debate about very little, but become animated like greased weasels while doing so. Harper’s sophisticated language software will seem smooth compared to Dion’s broken English and in any French events, it won’t matter because apparently Mr. Dion shares the same level of popularity with head lice.

This is depressing. I should have stuck with fart jokes.

 

 

 

 

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I Want to Fight Peggy Noonan.

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Here’s my recipe for writing a weekly (ha!) blog; ignore, ignore, and then frantically try to come up with a subject in my vain hope of posting every seven days. Last night, when I was reduced to looking through the contents of my kitchen for an idea, I remembered that I had made a list.

I did this at the behest of my friend Paul, who writes a really nifty blog that recently stuck it to the man. Relieved, I went to my PC (Yes, I’m still using my Amiga, damn it!) and opened up the appropriate file.

Apparently, I must have just suffered a head injury on the day that I started this list. It only contained one and it made no damn sense;

“Noonan sez CDN silly.”

Other than my spelling of the word ‘says’ being from The Simpsons, I recognized none of this. My usual remedy of chain smoking while downing generous gulps of Glenlivet didn’t help – but I did beat the crap out of my neighbor. I later asked my wife, the lovely and erudite Mrs. Sinister, but she noted that she didn’t go looking for things on “that part” of the computer since finding my erotic fanfic about The Golden Girls.

Eventually I did what any serious opinion columnist would do and performed the Google Dance, guessing at what my phrase might mean. I eventually found a column from the Opinion page of the Wall Street Journal written by Peggy Noonan. Much to my surprise, I had apparently read such a thing. Initially, this just served as a reminder not to surf the Interwebs when gooned on cough medicine, but then I found this:

“In France they speak French, and in China they speak Chinese. In Canada they have two national languages, but that’s one reason Canada often seems silly. They don’t even know what language they dream in.”

What language they dream in? Maybe we should examine what language you write in? To be fair, it’s obviously English, but the kind of English indicating that Peggy is a native of the tiny village Western Rhetorical Nonsense.

I’m going to ignore that since more than 32 million people speak Spanish there, the United States is essentially bilingual already. Spanish is also recognized as an official language or ‘language of government’ to some degree in California, Arizona, New Mexico, the frightening state of Texas and in whatever the hell Puerto Rico is. I will further ignore that in 1794, a motion was presented to the United States Congress asking that laws be printed in English and in German.

Yup, German…and you thought that the French disliked the Americans for no good reason.

Further, the current President of the United States speaks Spanish, and presumably as his first language. Given the regularity with which he turns whatever he’s thinking into serial misspeaking of English, he must have come to it later in life.

In France they speak French – Peg has us nailed there and I’m proud of her. They also invented that language, so I’m even more proud of them. Same for China and Chinese, although they speak about two hundred thousand variations of it according to the number I invented since I couldn’t bother to look it up. Germans speak German – they invented that too, or maybe it invented them. It only makes sense that Peggy should expect that in the United States, they should all speak United Statesian.

What’s that? There is no such language? English is actually a foreign language and merely an accident of the flow of immigrants? English is just a grand coincidence to the American identity?

Damn – don’t tell Peggy. Can I call you Peggy?

Peggy’s oeuvre on language culminated with the following compassionate and charitable statement that in no way made me want to gag;

“We must speak the same language so we can hearten each other.”

Oh, so that’s why?

Hypothetically, I have two situations in my head and I cannot decide which is more heartening;

1. Peggy Noonan Schools for Mandatory Heartening through Forced Education spring up around the country where people can have their potential for heartening increased dramatically. Programs could also include ‘An Introduction to Cultural Assimilation As To Not Make Whitey Uncomfortable’ and ‘Who’s Your Favorite Fifty-Something Former Reagan Speech writer, Pedro?’

2. You hearten people by accepting them as they are and agree that both you and they need to work very hard to get on the same page with language, culture and education.

Personally, I think I know which one I prefer but I need someone to help me with the math since I never took Heartening and Discrete Mathematics for Rich White Women.

So when I turn of the klieg lights here in the Sinister Tower and descend into the murky depths of my peat bog for a well-earned sleep, I will think of Peggy. It will occur to me, as a Canadian, that being called silly by such a person may be a blessing rather than a slight.

Then, I will dream…of Peggy…and I will do so in English, French, Franglais and maybe in some dizzyingly forbidden combination of the three.

And I will be heartened.

 

 

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