CANADIAN HUMOR

Canadian Flag

How Canada got its name

The elders all gathered around, and they put all the letters of the alphabet into a jar and mixed them up. Then they called them off as they pulled them out…. C eh! N eh! D eh!

***

The Pope did a quick stop, and a town-hall type thing in Kitchener, the last time he toured Canada. He was handing out miracles to the Kitchener kids. Archon just strolled up on stage, and asked him, “Can you help me with my hearing?”

The Pope said, “Yes.” and put his hands on Archon’s ears, and prayed. He removed his hands and said, “How is your hearing now?”

Archon answered, “I don’t know, it’s not until next Wednesday.”

***

Sally Mulligan of Comox, British Columbia decided to take one of the jobs that most Canadians are not willing to do.

The woman applying for a job in an Okanagan lemon grove seemed to be far too qualified for the job.

She had a liberal arts degree from the University of British Columbia and had worked as a social worker and school teacher.

The foreman frowned and said, “I have to ask you, have you had any actual experience in picking lemons?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I have! I’ve been divorced three times, owned 2 Chryslers and voted for Trudeau.”

***

All I’m saying is, when Canada starts refining its Maple Syrup reserves into weapons-grade Aunt Jemimium, you’re all French toast.

***

I’m a bit of a joker sometimes (most of the time). I was at a bar the other night, and a waitress screamed, “Does anybody know CPR?”

I said, “Hell, I know the entire alphabet.”

Everybody laughed…. except one guy.

***

My girlfriend and I are trying this whole “long distance relationship” thing.

I have to stay 100 yards away from her at all times. Also, the police say I should stop referring to her as my girlfriend.

***

I was asked what I look for in a relationship. Apparently, “A way out” was not the right answer.

***

My wife said I need to grow up. I was speechless.
It’s hard to talk when you have 45 gummy bears in your mouth.

***

French archaeologists found ancient copper cables under Paris…
They came to the conclusion that the French had telecommunications way back in the Copper age.

Infuriated by this, the British published a paper saying they found Bronze cables under London and came to the conclusion that they had telecommunication technology way before the French.

After hearing this, the Americans did some digging and found iron cables and came to the conclusion that they were the first to have telecommunication technology.

Undeterred, the Indians did they own digging under the ancient city of Varanasi but found nothing. They came to conclusion that ancient India had wireless technology way before anyone.

***

Sarah goes to school, and the teacher says, “Today we are going to learn multi-syllable words, class.

Does anybody have an example of a multi-syllable word?”

Sarah waves her hand, “Me, Miss Rogers, me, me!” Miss Rogers says, “All right, Sarah, what is your multi-syllable word?”

Sarah says, “Mas-tur-bate.” Miss Rogers smiles and says, “Wow, Sarah, that’s a mouthful.”

Sarah says, “No, Miss Rogers, you’re thinking of a blowjob.”

***

There was the woman who approached the local pharmacist and asked for cyanide.

“What on earth would you want to do with cyanide?” he asked.

“I want to poison my husband” she said coolly.

Of course the pharmacist was quite upset about this and made it quite clear to her that he was not going to be part of such a plot, and that he had no intention of selling any poison to her for that purpose.

The woman then took a photograph out of her bag. It showed the pharmacist’s wife in bed with the woman’s husband.

“Oh! You didn’t tell me you had a prescription!”

 

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U-Turn. No, You Turn!

 

Dictionary Bible

Recently, in a very unofficial interview, Pope Frank was quoted as saying that there was no Hell; i.e. there was no place, full of fire and brimstone, where souls were tortured for eternity.  He said that the torture for non-believers was merely to be removed from the presence and grace of God forever.

Immediately, the Official Church Organ (Not the one with the keys, which makes the music.  The one between priests’ and Bishops’ legs, that’s used to molest altar boys and choir girls) swung into action, denying, and “clarifying.”  The Good Catholics, who know more than the pontiff, who is infallible in doctrinal matters, began screaming, ‘Give us back our days Hell.’  (That “days” thing was the April Fools who thought that, somehow, part of their lives had been stolen when Pope Gregory rearranged the Julian calendar.)

The Vicar of Christ has now put his other strangely-shod foot in his mouth.  I don’t know if the situation was intentionally caused, and, if so, who caused it.  He attended the re-dedication of a renovated Catholic elementary school, attached to a cathedral. He and his goon-squad  bodyguards several Cardinals sat at the front, a microphone was set up about 10 feet in front of them, and each student was allowed to come up and ask him a question.

A 12-year-old boy could not speak his question into the mic, so a Cardinal grabbed him by the arm, and he was allowed to approach, and whisper his question into the Pope’s ear.  He and his mother were ‘good Catholics’, but his father, who had been a good man, but an Atheist, had recently died.  “Was his father in Heaven?”

Like, “Have you stopped beating your wife yet?”, this is a no-win question.  If he says ‘No,’ the pope disappoints a grieving son and all his schoolmates.  If he says ‘Yes,’ he contradicts Church doctrine.  The Pope considered for only a few seconds, and then said;

“God, our Father is like your father.  He is good and kind, forgiving and loving.  If your father was truly a good man, then God will forgive him, and welcome him into Heaven.”

I have written that the unchanging Catholic Church will take years – decades – centuries even, to ‘modify’ their dogma and catechisms.  This may be an attempt by Pope Francis to un-paint the Church from some of the corners it’s got itself into.  This could be the start of something good.

***

Speaking of Christians changing definitions….  I got some ironic laughs from Blogger Barry, in his replies on my Childlike Grace post.  If you don’t believe in a supernatural God the Father then, by definition, you are an Atheist!  If you don’t believe in God the Father then, by definition, there is no Christ the Son for you to be a non-theist (?), or post-modern, or Liberal Christian follower of.  😳

Please come back again soon.  See you at the dictionary, kids.   😉  😯

 

It’s Not Catching

Doctor

Doctors at a hospital in Brooklyn, New York have gone on strike. Hospital officials say they will find out what the doctors’ demands are as soon as they can get a pharmacist over there to read the picket signs!

***

Marriage is like a deck of cards.  When you start out, all you need is a couple of hearts, and a diamond.  After a few years though, you’re hoping for a club and a spade.

***

I called the animal shelter today and told them that I’d found six kittens in a suitcase in the woods.  They asked, “Are they moving?”  I said, “I don’t know, but that would explain the suitcase.

***

A professor at the University of Oklahoma was giving a lecture on ‘Involuntary Muscular Contractions’ to his first year medical students.  Realizing this was not the most riveting subject, the professor decided to lighten the mood slightly.  He pointed to a young woman in the front row and said,  ‘Do you know what your asshole is doing while you’re having an orgasm?’  Her answer: “He’s probably at the shooting range with his buddies.”

***

A drunken man with a suitcase and a newspaper arrives at the railway station and sits on a bench near a priest. The drunk takes a bottle of whisky out of his bag, drinks a lot of it and then reads the newspaper quietly. At one point he asks the priest:

“Excuse me, Father; do you know why people get sick with spondylosis?”

“Of course”, the priest answers in a cold and sarcastic courtesy. “The factors that cause spondylosis are: a messy life, the companionship of doubtful-quality women, the excessive consumption of alcohol and tobacco, drunks ending up in brothels… All these lead to spondylosis”.

“Wowww! I would never have believed that…” replies the drunk and then reads his newspaper again.

After the priest thinks for a while at what he said, he again addresses the drunkard, but this time in a gentle tone:

“Excuse me, I didn’t mean to offend you. How long are you sick with spondylosis, my son?”

“Me? No, Father… I’ve never been sick with it. I just read in the newspaper that the Pope is sick with spondylosis…”

***

A woman was arrested and fined for bringing her own popcorn, candy and soda to a movie theater.  The good news is that she came out a few bucks ahead of if she’d bought it all at the snack bar.

 

Flash Fiction #44

Deathtrap

© Lauren Moscato

Watch That First Step

“Dey say dissa new, Pope Frank”…..

“Pope Francis!  Avva sum respeck, eh!?”

“Dey say heeza nice guy, a manna da peepul. Dey say he goze owt onna street at night, anna help da homeless.”

“Uh huh!”

“He doan like da fancy cloze, an he doan stay at da Vatican.  He live in some ratty hotel.  Heeze ‘sposed ta wave at alla da peepul from da balcony at St. Peter Basilica.  What he gonna do when dey all show up outside hiz hotel window?”

“Doan wurry about dat.  I got sum material an toolz, an datz all bin tooken care of.

Go to Rochelle’s Addicted to Purple site and use her Wednesday photo as a prompt to write a complete 100 word story.

 

 

Don’t Be Sad

The Toronto Sun has a regular columnist who writes about a variety of issues.  When he writes about politics or social concerns, he is as clear as crystal.  Occasionally though, he strays off the well-traveled road, and into the religious minefield, where his work immediately resembles Beijing smog.

Several years ago, he wrote of being Jewish.  Six months later, he claimed that he was Catholic.  When called on it by several readers, he “explained” that his family had Jewish ancestry, but he had converted to Catholicism.  Oh good, just what we need, another gung-ho turncoat.

He quickly learned the Catholic method of the straw-man argument, to belittle those who did not agree with him.  Call them names; assign a definition, then make fun of them, to justify making himself feel better.

Just before Christmas, he took a swing at committed atheists.  He called them the most unhappy, lugubrious, neurotic special-interest group he’d ever encountered.  Then he corrected his accusation, and listed feminists and socialists first, truly an all-you-can-offend-buffet bigot.

He has decided to call atheists, Sads.  They must be sad; it’s an atheist’s nightmare, Christmas coming just two weeks after Pope Whasshisname was named Time’s Man of the Year.  He is convinced, that atheists are convinced, that the world is a dark, hateful place, where everyone is against you.

It’s sad that he doesn’t see, that atheists enjoy the commerce and conviviality of the season, without the need for a supernatural crutch.  He says they don’t grasp irony, but it’s ironic that atheists don’t care that the Pope received this honor. (?)  It’s much like Clay Aiken winning the American Idol crown, nobody with a three-digit IQ, and a life of their own, really gives a damn.

People in the past have sent him “misspelt emails” and they really should learn to master the apostrophe.  He’s a master at turning the subject from criticism to punctuation.  He’s heard the one about God being like the Tooth Fairy or Easter Bunny, that Hitler was a Christian, that Jesus didn’t exist, bad things happen to good people, and more wars have been fought in the name of religion than anything else – blah, blah, blah.  Doesn’t sound like blah, blah, blah to me, and many others.  It sounds serious.

He has dismissed these claims in, not one, but three, books; not “dealt with”, dismissed!  Yet Hitler was a Catholic, bad things do happen to good people, prayers are unanswered, and religious wars are still fought.  He wants critics to come up with something new, and challenging; religion is a game to be won, to him.  How about admitting to, and dealing with the old problems first?

It apparently makes him feel good to think that those who disagree with him feel bad.  Not exactly a loving Christian outlook, but then, he’s not exactly loving – or loved.  He admits that Easter is more theologically significant, that Christ probably wasn’t born late in December, and that the whole thing has been clumsily commercialized and secularized, but says he cherishes and believes in it because the show supports his “faith.”  That’s it fella, don’t let reality get in the way.

He would be sad to admit that Atheists quietly, happily, productively, co-operatively, are getting on with their lives, and making of them, as much as they can, without a vague promise of a second chance on the other side of the great divide.  He speaks of “all that is the pure, sparkling joy of the season, gloriously plump with giving, loving, forgiving, enjoying, rethinking and celebrating,” but then denies that they are available to any but his Good Christian compatriots.

He thinks nothing of launching attacks like this, but, should anyone have the temerity to express different thoughts, he falls back on another “Definition” defense – Religism.  This is defined as an attack on any or all organized religions, but, in his case, simply means somebody said he might be wrong in his heart and head.

A Protestant New York minister played this game recently.  He raised such a fuss that he was allowed to be on The View, where he railed to Liz Hasselbek that a bookstore had a shelf label on The Bible, showing it as “fiction!”  After his televised furor, he admitted that “it might have been a simple clerical error.”

The Sun columnist is a sad, shrivelled soul!  It is sad that he gains so much twisted happiness in spewing his bigoted hatred, and taking so much joy in his belief in the imagined pain and suffering of others he deems unworthy.  It is sad that he is not unique, and that there are so many more judgmental, condemnatory Christians like him.

I, on the other hand, would be very happy if you drop lots of likes and comments in the collection plate.

 

BTW, FYI – Lugubrious means mournful, dismal, gloomy, sorrowful or melancholy, especially in an affected, exaggerated, or unrelieved manner.  Sounding pompous doesn’t make you right.

DisAnDat

Spring is sprung.

The grass is riz.

I wonders where the birdies is?

The birds is on the wing, I’ve heard.

Hmm, I thought the wings was on the bird.

It’s official weather fans, at least in this part of Southern Ontario, the back of winter is officially broken.  Oh, we may still get a cold snap, or even another good snowfall, but we’ve had almost a week of above-freezing temps, and clear sunny days.  My driveway is finally devoid of any snow or ice.  There’s a foot and a half of grass at the edge of the driveway, and the path I pounded down in the backyard for the dog, is turning green.  I have heard, though not actually seen, robins, for the last two weeks.  Houselights which used to be turned on by 4:30, are now not needed till after six.

This is the type of spring where I used to have my motorcycle on the road by March 15, instead of April 1.  The son and I went to a Chapters bookstore on Sunday, and there were several bikes out, enjoying the first decent riding day.

On Saturday, March 2, we took a slightly different route to the farmers’ market.  Just after our most recent snowstorm, we passed a house where, instead of building the usual snowman, someone had carved 6 or 7 Easter Island Moas out of snow.  Easter IslandWe weren’t the only ones impressed.  Monday morning a picture was on the front page of the local paper.  The wife downloaded it for me, and I’ve included it to show local artistic talent.

“Lost” shopping carts, taken off the property by various people, for various reasons, are a problem for supermarkets.  There’s a man near the daughter’s place, who made part of his earnings by driving around in his pick-up, and returning carts to stores.  Several local markets have installed a buried magnetic strip around the property.  If a cart crosses the mag-strip, it causes one of the wheels to lock.  The number of abandoned carts has decreased significantly.

My favorite market decided to go a different way.  They got rid of their old carts, and brought in a new batch which require the insertion of a quarter to release a chain, which not everybody likes, or has a ready quarter for.  This not only reduces the number removed from the property, but tends to insure that they’re not abandoned in parking spaces….or so the theory says.

In practice, lazy, inconsiderate fools will continue to be lazy, inconsiderate fools, even when it costs them 25 cents.  I was in the store last week, and two asshats had abandoned carts which were blocking the exit doors.  I’ll put them away for 50 cents.  The next day, I went back for something else, and removed two from parking spots, including a handicap spot.  I’m still doing what I used to do and bitch about, only now I get paid for it.  C’monnn  asshats!  Retirement is expensive.

I was in a different market last week, and saw the backs of several boxes of different spices.  The identification on the boxes simply read, Mt. Scio Farm, Mt. Scio Road, and gave a 7-digit phone number, no town, city, province or state, and no area code.  Always curious, I plugged it into an internet search-engine.  Man, you can find anything on the webz, if you know how to ask.  Turns out this farm is about a mile from KayJai’s place in Newfoundland.  Anything’s possible, but gourmet spices and The Rock, just don’t seem likely to happen in the same sentence.

The Pope has resigned, and the Catholic Church is in the midst of choosing another Pope.  Anyone who wants some God/Pope jokes, ask, and I’ll email them to you privately.  All I’m going to say is:  There is a Bishop in England, who has been accused of homosexually assaulting three priests and an ex-priest.  (You can be an ex-priest??  I thought it was like the Mafia, or the Hells Angels, you were in it till you were dead.)

The man who is most responsible for hushing up the story, and allowing this man time to quietly resign from the Church, is Cardinal Marc Ouellette, the Canadian with a good chance of becoming the next Pope.  It’s depressing to see that it’s still business as usual for the Holy, infallible Church.

Several years ago, while visiting Niagara Falls, I picked up what appeared to be a folded American one-dollar bill.  When I unfolded it, I saw a message which read, “Disappointed?  Not as disappointed as you’ll be, when you find that you’re going to Hell, because you haven’t accepted Jesus as your savior.”

Recently, I picked up a “Smart Card”, a business-card sized document.  Good thick card-stock, rounded corners, gloss finish on both sides and an inch-square fractal-metallic “hologram” area on the front.  This is an expensively produced artifact.  The card instructed the finder to press his/her thumb on the square “for exactly 15 seconds” to see if you were a “good person”.  If you are, the square will turn bright green.

The back of the card, which is covered in fine print, says, “Sorry….you’re just like the rest of us.  The dictionary says “good” is to be “morally excellent.”  Let’s check the standard – The Ten Commandments.”  It then rambles on for about 500 words about, accept Jesus, obey God, don’t lie, don’t lust, forgive sins and read the Bible, but assumes that the only way to be “good”, was through the Ten Commandments.

I am singularly unimpressed with any organization, or those who claim to represent the agency, who feel that this degree of trickery is needed to advance their moral position.

 

 

Time Keeps On Slippin’, Slippin’, Slippin’,

into the future, or so says Steve Miller’s song, Fly Like an Eagle.  I wish I were like an eagle.  I’m more like an overfed, ground-bound tom-turkey, lucky to have survived two adjacent thanksgivings.  But the time is still dashing past, while I do little more than mourn its passing and grow ever closer to my own.

When you are young, you have not had many experiences to produce memories.  Each memory is separated from the next, and the mental reach to retrieve any given one is so large that time seems to stretch.  I wrote recently that, as a child, summer seemed to last a whole year.

As you grow older, you experience more and more, and the memories begin to pile up, one against the next, and the mental reach to retrieve each reduces, till time seems to fly past.  With so many memories, it’s not unusual for old folks to reach back and mis-remember, by grabbing the wrong one.  Did I feed the cats today??  I remember feeding the cats, but, with 2000 days of cat feeding, did what I remember, happen today?  Or yesterday?? Or last week?

Four things have occurred in my life recently, in, what to me, was the blink of an eye.  First, I had a birthday.  I turned 68 on the autumnal equinox, and temporally hurtled past it so fast, that I didn’t even blog about it for two months.  Next I managed to reach my 100th post, at my frenetic pace of every-three-days.  Then, on Nov. 21st, two months to the day past my birthday, I reached my blogiversary, and got around to mentioning my birthday.  Last, but definitely not least, the wife and I celebrated our 45th wedding anniversary on December 2nd.

I look at a couple of photos taken that day, which we have mounted in a collage, and wonder, who are those kids?  Where have they gone?  Of three people other than us in the shots, all later married, and all have got divorced.

We were poor as church-mice when we married.  We met while taking educational upgrading at the local Community College, and had both just got jobs, after living for over a year on the equivalent of Unemployment Insurance payments.  We married in my home-town in a compromise church.  She was about to become an ex-Catholic, and I was a non-attending Baptist, so we were wed in an Anglican Church.  I tipped the preacher $5.

My mother and half-sister prepared food, and the tiny reception was held at the sister’s big house, which had once been a Presbyterian manse.  Of the wife’s nine siblings, only the two other failed Catholics attended.  The group numbered only about 30.  The bakery provided a two tiered cake.  Normal wedding cake is heavy and solid, like Christmas-cake, to provide support for the tiers.  Since ours was so small, we convinced the baker to do it in white cake.  He slid a disc of cereal-box-like cardboard under the upper layer.

We wanted to spend a night at Niagara Falls, a two and a half hour drive.  Married at noon on the Saturday, by 4 o’clock my mother mentioned that we should be on our way, but it had just started freezing rain.  We left town and took the county road toward Niagara, but within three miles, we were falling off the crown of the road, and limping along the snowy shoulder.  We decided to turn back for guidance.  Just as we approached the crossroads, a sander/salter truck went by.  He must be going somewhere!  So we followed him.  He went about half the way to Niagara, and, as night fell, he pulled into a works-yard in a small village.  We spent our first married night at the village inn, and didn’t reach Niagara for several years.

I carefully inspected the car before we left, but found no soaped windows or just-married signs.  I disconnected the de rigueur string of tin cans, and off we went.  About five miles after we pulled behind the Roads truck, I found that someone had purchased a smoked fish, and wedged it under the exhaust manifold.  The grease got hot, and I re-cooked it and burned it on.  Getting it off a red-hot manifold without getting burned myself was an adventure.  The smell of overcooked fish dissipated in about two weeks.

Like many other things in our lives, the wife and I are not so much stubborn about being married, as determined.  We’ve been to counselling a couple of times, to file some of the sharper points off.  As we age, and aches and pains multiply, and the number of external idiots seems to stretch to infinity, our patience diminishes, and we irk each other a bit more than we did when we were younger.  I like to think though, that there is still some solid love for each other under the tough crusts.

When you are married for 50 years, you get a congratulatory letter from the Prime Minister.  My Mom and Dad received theirs shortly before they died, but it was Mom’s second marriage and Dad’s late first.  I think it meant more to me then, than it did to them.  Still, I am looking forward to reaching that milestone, for more than just a piece of paper from some politician.

All aches and pains and diminishing strength aside, both of us are healthy enough to last another 15 years.  My Mom was 92, and Dad was 85 when they passed.  I have good genes.  If the family cancer hasn’t even touched the wife before now, there’s a strong chance it never will, and medicine continues to improve.  After 60 years of marriage, you also receive a letter of congratulations from the Queen, in the same way you can now get a personal tweet from the Pope.  I anticipate getting my certificate from a Royal Footman.