Humour, Rantings

10 things that make me stabby

  • folding clothes in neat piles
  • hip-hop played louder than listening speed
  • people with bombs strapped to their chest and a smile on their face
  • small children in waiting rooms who need to be exorcised
  • a blocked toilet without a plunger
  • people who ask me for a light before they look for a cigarette in my hand
  • hobo joe and his dreamcoat crammed next to me on the bus
  • a bad can opener who laughs at me and my last can of beans
  • after a poetic dump, a brown roll looks back at me and waves



Canadian nuances, Humour

Canadian nuances – Part 4: The Dance of Gentlemen

If you’ve ever encountered a Canadian, or at least heard of them, you will hear a variety of things. Apart from them growing enraged over games of ice hockey, and drowning their pancakes in maple syrup, you will be told something to the effect of “They’re a friendly and polite bunch of people.” Today I’ve decided to go on a little rant about the politeness of these snow-covered creatures. Coming from a country where the rules blend into guidelines more often than not, when I’m suddenly forced to follow procedures without question…it can feel like the proverbial nail is skating down the chalkboard. I’ll give you an example…

After first arriving in Canada I figured out where the nearest bottle store was from my house. Why? (Because without it life has fewer colors in it). The first time I visit I grab a six pack of stout, I get to the counter and the older gentlemen behind it grabs my beers and enquires “Do you happen to have I.D. on you?” I counter the question with a dumbstruck expression and say to the guy that I’m not a teenager. I’m told that regardless he needed to see my mug on something otherwise by law he couldn’t sell it to me.

I soon realize my arguments are as effective as walking the streets of Vancouver minus an umbrella. I decided to walk the two blocks back to my apartment, grumbling as I go, to sequester my beer ticket. I arrive home and I can’t find my PR card (i.e. permanent residence card). I rummage a little and decide my passport should suffice.

I return to the bottle store again, gripping my beer ticket like a weapon of the first world. I hand it to the same gentleman. He takes a good minute scrutinizing my picture and then comments “the photo is a little blurry.” I shrug and tell him, “You asked me for ID. That is all I have.”  He nods and allows the purchase to continue.

You may wonder why did this ordeal drove me to write several paragraphs. The answer is in my home country from the legal drinking age of 18 and upwards, I never once was asked to present my ID before buying alcohol. Never. In fact it never crossed my mind to have my ID on me when buying beer. This is one example of the Canucks having a high regard for the law, now I’ll move on to illustration I have dubbed “the dance of gentlemen”.

I have explained a little earlier that one of the primary values of Canadians is to be considerate of others. One of my Canuck house-mate mentioned to me, “that is what makes a civil society”. Despite many of my rants I do agree with this principle for the most part, although it does seem rather weird at first. When first arriving here I would start to cross the road and a car would be approaching. Sometimes the car would go as far as reversing slightly to ensure that you had enough space. Yes, you heard me.

Automatically reversing cars is one example of Canadians being considerate and giving you your personal space, here’s another. After the first eight months or so I remember making friends with a great guy called Conrad. His parents were visiting from New Brunswick and the five of us (Conrad’s wife included) were off to go eat at a Chinese restaurant. We had all done at least 30 km cycling around the city that day. We’re walking on the side walk towards our chosen restaurant, the and dance of gentlemen was about to ignite.

For some reason I reach the door first and hold it open for the masses. Conrad’s parents and his wife accept my gesture and shuffle passed. When he gets towards the door he gestures for me to go first. I tilt my head slightly and do a similar no-after-you motion with my free hand. This is paying the price of chivalry. It is the dance of gentlemen. The reason you do it is because if you end up being the last person to enter the building, you win! If you’re lucky a small flicker of colonial pride may kindle in your eyes for a second.

It’s silly and stupid. Perhaps even pathetic. I’m sure if you’re a man you’ve found yourself doing the same dance. I’ve found myself doing this a lot more in Canada where manners, aren’t merely nice-to-have but are expected. You know what? I think I like it…especially if I’m the last guy with trundles into the pub with pride.



Humour, Rantings

only bleed if you have to…

Never Tap Out.
Those are the words that I read on the back of someone’s shirt as I left the gym this evening. Then a thought occurred to me. What if I wanted to tap out? Maybe I was in the ring and I felt like being the gentleman. Say for example I was a minimally aggressive non-conforming MMA fighter. Perhaps (while my brains were being purged from my skull) I decided my body could do with a bit of time out. Now if the initial phrase meant nothing to you, it may because you aren’t aware of all the knuckles and fists of MMA. Let me break it down for you…

MMA (Mixed Martial Arts). Unlike the name suggests, it has nothing to do with dressing in a white bathrobe and chopping up your opponent in a Bruce Lee-resque fashion. The best way to describe MMA is to think of boxing. If you’re a boxer and you decide you can’t stand the sight of gloves, and your opponent doesn’t bleed enough…chances are that MMA is the sport for you. Let me put it another way…think of men that always wanted to be professional WWE wrestlers but decided that the costumes were to flashy, and the speeches too verbose.

For more amazing shots check out…

Now what about the “tap out” thingy you mentioned?
What separates MMA from boxing is the specific style used. If you’re boxing you can knock out your opponent by landing enough blows from your fists. If you’re an MMA fighter you’re not limited to fists. In MMA you use a technique called “grappling.” This means you will get the other guy to the ground as fast as possible. Once he’s there, you’ll get him to into either a choke-hold or some other nasty position and win by submission. There’s a rule about this though. If you feel like your body can’t withstand the punishment anymore you reach out and tap the ground twice with a hand. That’s called a “tap out” or “tapping out”.

On the whole I’m terribly uninterested in sport as a guy. Any sport that involves any kind of ball, touchline, racquets, wickets, or beer drinking men gathering around a fire to grill meat and drink more beer, leaves me with a queasy feeling. There are only two types of sport I can watch where I will staple my eyes to the television screen for the duration of the conversation I have with you.

They are MMA, obviously, and motor racing. Anything where you can ride a petrol tank and hurtle down a race track  at blistering speeds, gets my blood going. Perhaps it’s the intensity of knowing that these people (MMA fighters and the helmeted gents) are moments away from dying. I’ll let irony speak for itself as I continue to stay engrossed, and slowly quaff away my pint of beer.




Truth is female

Truth is female, since truth is beauty rather than handsomeness; this, Ridcully reflected as the Council grumbled in, would certainly explain the saying that a lie could run around the world before Truth has got it’s, correction, her boots on, since she would have to choose which pair – the idea that any woman in the position to choose would have just one pair of boots being beyond rational belief. Indeed, as a goddess she would have lots of shoes, and thus many choices, comfy shoes for home truths, hobnail boots for unpleasant truths, simple clogs for universal truths and possibly. some kind of slipper for self-evident truth. More important now was what kind of truth he was going to have to impart to his colleagues, and he decided not on the whole truth, but instead on nothing but the truth, whig dispensed with the need for honesty.”

– Terry Pratchett (Unseen Academicals)