But not all the cars have noticed this. Just when I am almost up to the cheese truck, the driver of a white car directly behind the cheese truck suddenly notices the truck’s warning lights — as well as the open delivery door and two men removing boxes of cheese. So, the driver of the the white car immediately starts to turn into the left lane.

Realizing that the white car might do this, I’ve stopped. It’s not a huge amount of room for the white car to change lanes, but as the light has already turned red, it’s enough.

This is when the driver of the white car notices me and proceeds to lose his shit.

(Quick note about the driver: about 60 years-old, but a hard 60. Gray hair, beard, scowl lines creasing his face so much that I can see them through his rear-view mirror. His wife sits next to him, staring straight ahead, smoking an 18-foot-long cigarette.)

So, he sees me and loses it. In his mind I have cut him off. I have cut him off and done so maliciously and gleefully. He’s screaming in his rear-view mirror, waving his arms around, and pointing at me (periodically using very specific fingers).

I see this and I distinctly mouth, “I. LET. YOU. IN.”

He freaks out even more, screaming even harder, bouncing up and down in his seat, and pointing successively at himself, then me, then at the road, then back at himself.

I roll down my window and I yell, “DUDE! I! LET! YOU! IN!”

And that’s when he grabs a SHEATHED HUNTING KNIFE, holds it up to the rear-view mirror and points at it.

So I do what any sane person would do.

I start laughing uncontrollably.

Yes, I realize he did just threaten my life.

BUT COME ON.

A HUNTING KNIFE?

“OH NO! I MAY HAVE TO ROLL UP MY WINDOW!”

He watches me lose it for a moment. Then he puts the hunting knife down, looks straight ahead, and changes lanes.

Light turns green and we drive on.

And I can’t help it. I keep laughing at him. When I catch him looking at me in his rear-view mirror, I laugh even harder. The whole way.

Two blocks from my work, he pulls off and disappears down a side street.

His wife never turned her head.

I was totally gonna start with Day 1 of my holidays, also known as “The Day That Everything Went Really Friggin’ Wrong”, which was punctuated by the experience of cutting my finger on a potato. Not on a knife with which I was cutting a potato. No — on on actual potato. Considering that Solanum tuberosum does not appear anywhere on the 2007 Year-End Top 100 Things That Are Sharp And Will Cut You, Bitch list, this was a fairly remarkable feat. Be it resolved, from this day forth the lowly potato is my nemesis and I will henceforth revel in my slow, tasty decimation of its entire species. [Perfunctory super-villain laugh.]

Next, I was gonna transition into our trip to Newfoundland, Land of Heavy Starches and Force-Feeding In-Laws. We had so much food thrown at us everyday that we did not get to eat a single bite of turkey leftovers. (Also, stuffing stings when thrown in the eyes, but not as much as cranberry sauce.)

The only mitigating factor to the lard-producing quantities of food was the two games of Ultimate I got to play (yay!) and the three-freaking days that I got to shovel several feet of snow (anti-yay!).

…

Note: I would have had to shovel four-freaking days in Newfoundland, but my back seized up after the third shovel-o-rama — compounded by the 5 hours I spent hunched over attempting to set up a new Vista laptop to be “foolproof” for My Lovely Wife’s aunt — so I got to sit out shovelling on our last morning on the Rock.

But never fear, because upon arriving home that afternoon, I had to shovel OUR driveway out. And when I say “shovel”, I actually mean “repeatedly drive a metal gardening shovel into the 6 inch thick sheet of ice covering our driveway and cry”.

And then I got to do it again the next day.

That’s right. Five-freaking days of shovelling.

Good times. Good times.

…

Then I was going to Snoopy-dance into the story of how the Small One seems to be completely out of the woods with his bladder problem. He — and the house — no longer smell like pee and he’s back to his regular cuddly self.

…

Note: Actually, both our boys seem to have reacted quite strongly to our holiday absence and are taking steps to prevent our further departure from the house. For example, they have fashioned crude shackles out of cat hair and dander (not particularly secure — except for the very allergic — but props for effort!) and have chained themselves to our bodies. Bedtime has never been so warm nor so furry. Last night, My Lovely Wife was mad at me for two hours for snoring before she realised that it was the Large One sawing logs in her ear.

…

And then I would have mentioned some other stuff.

Really, I could have gone on and on and on about every speck of minutia concerning our holidays.

But then… this morning I received this email from My Lovely Wife:

Hi,

Today is Jan 3rd. Three years ago something happened…

Yes.

It is true.

I forgot our anniversary.

[Hangs head in shame.]

And everything would have been JUST FINE if we BOTH continued to forget.

But My Lovely Wife remembered. Before me. And she got to be the one who told me.

If our marriage was a game — let’s say, Dungeons and Dragons — I totally failed my saving throw against Anniversary and took full damage. I’m at 0 hit points and need binding soon if I want to live. The DM is chuckling and rolling dice behind his screen.

Luckily… our marriage is not a game [listens for sound of polyhedral dice] and I seem to be at full hit points.

More importantly, I am married to the coolest chick in the world.

Heck she even put down my visor for me on our drive to work today so I wouldn’t get sun in my eyes.

(And she only complained a little while she did it.)

Ladies and gentlemen… that’s love.

When it comes down it it, only one thing matters.

I’m the luckiest guy in the world.

Happy Anniversary, Sweetie!

Probably about the next two hours were spent training BBEdit to do text replacements the way that I want it to. And it agreed very nicely. And then made me a very nice latte with lots of foam. And rubbed my feet. Holy crap is it nice using software designed to be user-friendly and powerful. I do believe this trial period will end with me paying for a BBEdit License. Unless someone knows of a comparable Mac text editor with FTP capabilities and the ability to totally hack the keyboard shortcuts…

And the last hour was spent doing actual work. Yay.

I do feel like I’m working with about one arm, two fingers, and about 1/3 of my regular brain capacity. I NEED MY INTERNET! Damn damn damn damn damn… I’m crawling out of my skin up here… I can make it though. Landing in Calgary in about half an hour and then I have almost three ours in which to find a clean vein and shoot up some pure grade INTAWEB straight to my central nervous system.

Whoops. Seats up in the full upright and locked position. Gotta go…

…

Awwww CRAP.

Stupid Telus. Stupid stupid Telus.

I’m in Calgary and I have no internet.

I was willing to pay for internet access. I was ready to pay through my freaking NOSE.

But NOOOOoooOOOOoooo… Telus Hotspot Service is “temporarily unavailable”. Phaw. Telus service is a big dodohead an he likes to eat stinky poos. Really stinky poos. Like, when my sisterwhoeatspoofor two eats poo, the poos that come out of her. Poo MADE from poo. That stinky.

Crap.

Oh well. At least I get to recharge.

And drink coffee. Mmmmm… coffee.

…

Later. Still Calgary. (The Rockies! In the distance. Hi, Mountains!)

Telus is up now.

At $10.00 a freaking hour.

Considering that my flight is boarding in 2 minutes… my nose is less willing to be a conduit of payment than it was previously. So, I must wait until Vancouver to pay through the nose.

What is with the whole paying for Wifi in airports? Is it really that expensive for them? Is gouging us really that fun? (“Whee! Let us sing the Gouging Song! Gouge gouge gouge gouge gouge gouge gouge gouge gouge gouge gouge gouge gouge gouge goooooooooooooge… GOUGE! GOUGE! GOUGE! Lovely. Good job everyone. Gerald, a little less vibrato next time, thank you very much. This is a fight song, not The Barber of Seville. Don’t look at me like that, Gerald. Gerald. Gerald. Please don’t cry. Oh, Gerald.”) Just imagine how much happier people in airports could be if they didn’t have bullcrap Wifi fees rammed sideways up their poopchutes.

…

Heh. “Poopchutes”.

…

That’s it. I’m watching Battlestar Galactica on this leg of my journey. I can work later.

…

Well… it seems that Banana can’t suck up the juice too fast. I’ve got about 15 more minutes of juice until I can charge her up in Vancouver. Thus concludes my BSG watching extravaganza. Oh well,

One awesome thing: MOUNTAINS! MOUNTAINS! MOUNTAINS!

Please join me in a rousing chorus of “Woot!”

After gazing slack-jawed for a couple of minutes, I did have the presence of mind to grab my camera to take a picture of the Rockies from above… just as we hit the cloud cover. So. Sorry No photo.

I’m signing off again. For a bit. I got me some podcasts to listen too.

Getting hungry too. Mrph.

…

Vancouver. Fog. Cloud cover. No view. Expensive internet. Should I pay for it?… Nope. The end of the road is near. I’ll log in at the hotel.

…

Review: Harvey’s hamburgers suck.

…

Landed in Prince George. I’m in the complimentary shuttle that the conference has set up, waiting for the slowpokes to get their luggage stowed. It’s 4:40 local time. My body thinks it is 8:40. Supper is gonna be weird.

I want to get in my room. And eat. AND GET ONLINE. YAAARGH.

Nice side effect of the new keyboard — it making me unlearn my pounding keyboarding habits. Maybe I won’t wake up the neighbours anymore.

(Nice Banana. I love my Banana. I would never hurt my Banana.)

…

I’M HERE! I’M HERE! I’M HERE!

Especially if by “here” you are referring to the middle of nowhere.

And for the one person from Prince George that reads this in two years doing a search for “free banana poopchutes in Prince George”, I’m not saying that Prince George is in the middle of nowhere.

My hotel is in the middle of nowhere.

There’s a gas station across the street. And a Chinese restaurant. About half a mile down there are a few tractor dealerships.

Oh, and the hotel has a casino.

As I have on occasion offered to win a bear for My Lovely Wife at the fair and left having spent over $40.00… this could be a bad thing.

Whatever the case… I need sustenance. I’m signing out for now. Will report more later.

…

One more note. I tried to take a picture of the view from my hotel room, but my camera turned itself off in protest. Sorry. The view really is that boring.

Well! Thank goodness I made it here in time!

You might have missed…

Ummm…

Errr…

… uses of prosthetics in reptile thievery?

…

Quality material here, folks.

Quality.

The Minneapolis airport toilet where US senator Larry Craig was arrested for allegedly soliciting gay sex is now attracting tourists, say airport staff.

Oh. My. God. Do people have no idea what it means to vacation? To escape their everyday life and slip the bounds of drudgery and the mundane? Are their souls so dead, their imaginations so bereft of wonder, their dreams so crushed beyond repair, that they will blindly clutch at the crudest of diversions, just to experience something, anything that can cut through the haze and fog of their numb existences, as if they were jabbing their tongue into the toothache of their souls to feel — O, to feel — anything at all?

I mean — REALLY?

MINNEAPOLIS???

[Shudder.]

…

My apologies to all Minneapolians.

…

Minneapolites?

Minneapolii?

Or is that plural of Minneapolis?

…

Imagine that — more than one Minneapolis.

…

[Shudder.]

Police are looking for a man who attempted to disguise himself as a tree and rob a bank in Manchester, New Hampshire Saturday morning.

Police say the suspect used duct tape to attach tree branches onto his body as a form of camouflage. He then walked into the Citizens Bank on Elm Street and demanded money.

Yes.

You read that correctly.

He disguised himself as a tree.

But wait!

It gets better!

The tree robber was able to escape with an undisclosed amount of cash.

YES.

IT. WORKED.

[Brain juice leaks out of ears.]

Seriously though, his choice of camouflage does need some work. Unless the bank was in the middle of Sherwood Forest.

Would it have been that hard to staple some deposit slips and ATM receipts to his body?

Nobody can see me… nobody can see me…

…

UPDATE: Damn. They caught him.

But he would have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for those pesky kids and that darned dog!

Singer Sheryl Crow has said a ban on using too much toilet paper should be introduced to help the environment.

Crow has suggested using “only one square per restroom visit, except, of course, on those pesky occasions where two to three could be required”.

Let the experiment begin…

…

HYPOTHESIS:

One square of toilet paper is sufficient in all but the most “pesky occasions”.

…

EXPERIMENT:

Whoops. There goes the call of nature. Well… time to employ a little scientific prowess. First, let’s be certain to have some reading material… check! We’re ready to go!

[Necessary clothing adjustments are made. Sits.]

[Pause.]

O SWEET JESUS! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?! WHAT DID I EAT??? TANDOORI ROADKILL??? TURNONTHEFANTURNONTHEFAN!!! OHGODOHGODOHGOD… AAAAAAaaaaaaaAAAAAaaaa… UHN!

[Pause.]

Okay.

[Pause.]

I think we’re good.

[Pause.]

SOMEBODY PLEASE! KILL ME NOW! PLEASE! PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY! ISWEARIWILLNEVEREATAGAIN! AAAAAAAAAAH!!!

[Pause.]

Well. That’s over with.

Time for some serious testing.

[Rips one square of toilet paper. Applies.]

AUGH! WHATTHEHELL??? THAT! DID! NOT! WORK!!! UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN! UNCL-

[Pause.]

Wait.

Breathe.

This was covered in the initial hypothesis.

How was it posed?…

Oh yes.

This must be a “pesky occasion”.

Well then. I know what to do.

[Rips three squares of toilet paper. Applies.]

OHNOOHNOOHNOOHNO!!! THATDIDN’TWORKEITHER!!! IT BURNS! IT BURNS! DAMN YOU, SHERYL CROW! SOMEONE! HELP!!! I NEED HEEEEEEEEEEELP!!!

[Pause.]

Honeeeeeey?…

Can you get me- NO! NOT TOILET PAPER! I’m only allowed three squares AND I USED THOSE! I don’t know… ummmm… how about the New York Times?? Of course the Sunday Edition! THIS IS A CODE RED!! Will it be enough?? Um… I don’t know!! Something else… ummm… I know! Get me that polar bear! You know! The famous one!

YES!

KNUT!!!

Lot’s ‘o’ clean white surface area there…

…

CONCLUSION:

Sheryl Crow is an idiot.

…

BONUS CONCLUSION:

I have no personal boundaries.

Hi, Knut!

Well. I am happy to report that the asshat has left the country.

Florida called and had us courier it down.

• CNET News.com: “Police blotter: Teens prosecuted for racy photos” (via Boing Boing)

A brief recap:

A 17-year-old boy and a 16-year-old girl in Florida had themselves some of those sexual relations. With each other. As has been known to happen. And let’s be clear here — in Florida, it is LEGAL for teenagers to have sex with each other. Whether or not it’s smart, they are legally allowed to do it.

The two of them then decided to photograph those sexual relations. Yes, I think we can all agree that just possibly this was not the smartest of moves — Star Wars Kid anyone? Whatever. They took the pictures and then they sent the photos from her computer to his email account.

That’s it. A teenage couple had some of the sex with each other, took some naughty pictures of themselves, and then shared the photos WITH EACH OTHER. At no point did either of them express an interest in publishing the photos publicly.

Here’s where the Florida judicial system grabbed the asshat and pulled it firmly down over its ears:

Court records don’t say exactly what happened next — perhaps the parents wanted to end the relationship and raised the alarm — but somehow Florida police learned about the photos.

Amber and Jeremy were arrested. Each was charged with producing, directing or promoting a photograph featuring the sexual conduct of a child. Based on the contents of his e-mail account, Jeremy was charged with an extra count of possession of child pornography.

And they were found guilty. OF FREAKING CHILD PORN.

And let’s underline the final point that tips the asshat to a nice jaunty angle:

THEY. WERE. TRIED. AS. ADULTS.

The legal acrobatics here are… what’s the word I’m looking for?

Oh yeah — asshatacular.

…

P.S. Reading this over, I realise that I added absolutely nothing to the dialogue that wasn’t said more succinctly over at Boing Boing.

But I did use the word “asshat” more. So we’re good.

A Nicaraguan man facing deportation next week says the Immigration and Refugee Board denied him asylum in Canada because they didn’t believe he’s gay.

Alvaro Orozco, who has lived in Toronto for two years, based his refugee claim on fears of returning to his home country where sodomy is illegal. He says his family beat him because of his sexual orientation.

“My father told me, ‘If one of my sons became gay one day, I will kill him with my hands,’” said Orozco. “I was so scared. And that is why I escaped.”

Let’s recap:

Gay teenager escapes his country out of fear for his life. After finding sanctuary in churches in the U.S., he finally makes it to Canada.

Where he is told, “Sorry. We don’t believe you’re gay. Go home.”

And why don’t they believe?

Because, while he was living in the U.S. — and let us reiterate, living in the U.S. under the sanctuary of the Church — “he wasn’t sexually active”.

Urrrg.

Is it just barely possible that he was… I don’t know… trying to keep his sexual orientation on the down-low? From the people that were protecting him? People that aren’t regularly known to be fond of those that — how shall we put this? — enjoy fruit of the same flavour?

Then again… is it also just barely possible that he maybe wasn’t sexually active because he was a freaking TEENAGER?

(God knows, plenty of my teenage years were spent desperately willing to be sexually active. WITH NO SUCCESS WHATSOEVER.)

Basically, it comes down to the fact that if you ain’t getting some, your sexual orientation is suspect.

Be warned.

(And get busy.)

Beyond this incomprehensible clusterfuck of an excuse, I’m just trying to imagine what sort of testing procedures one would use in a case like this to “prove” someone was gay:

“Doug, can you go in there and — I don’t know — sashay around him a few times? Maybe hum some Streisand?”

[Pause.]

“Nothing? Well, ladies and gentlemen — our work here is done!”

Please allow me to repeat myself:

Asshats.

CASHIER: And did you find everything you were looking for today?

ME: Yup.

CASHIER: [Opening the DVD cases] So we have “Brick” and the movie that we are not allowed to say the title of.

ME: Yup… What?

CASHIER: We aren’t allowed to say the name of that movie.

ME: What?

SECOND CASHIER: Yup. Had to take down the poster and everything.

ME: You’re not allowed to say “Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story”?

FIRST CASHIER: Nope.

ME: Ahem… “Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story”.

[Anticipatory pause.]

FIRST CASHIER: Oh, YOU can shout it to the rooftops. We just can’t. Had a customer complain.

ME: That’s stupid.

SECOND CASHIER: Yup.

ME: Really stupid.

FIRST CASHIER: Yup.

ME: Wow.

[Pay for movies. Walk to exit. Pause. Turn around and face the store.]

ME: Tristram Shandy. [Pause.] A COCK and BULL Story.

[Pause. World does not end. Exit.]