Bring me a bowl of burning mold?!

I don't think this is what Blake had in mind.

Okay. I know that many people who visit this site do so because they were looking for something unrelated and, thanks to the democratic anarchy of Google, end up here instead. Searching the Internet can sometimes be like rooting through your kitchen cupboards for a can of beans and running across the entire cast of Gilligan’s Island.

Years ago, my old clippings and resume site received the greatest bulk of its traffic from people looking for “chicken art.”

I never knew whether they were looking for art created by chickens, or art with chickens as its subject matter. Either way, anyone doing the search would find my site within the first five hits.

Injustice on Trial — The Arrest

Injustice Arrested in Toronto

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By Blatchie Christford

Protesters on College Street try to find their way to the police station

Toronto, Canada — Following on the heels of the arrest of Roman Polanski, another long-sought fugitive from justice will finally be brought to trial.

Injustice (no last name), wanted on a list of charges that has been growing exponentially since the dawn of time, turned himself in at Toronto Metropolitan Police headquarters yesterday at 4:45 pm.

“It was quite a surprise,” said the officer on duty, Sergeant Michael O’Leary. ” I mean, — Injustice. You know? The guy’s an Immortal. If he doesn’t want to get caught, there’s not much we can do about it. In that sense, he’s kind of  like Superman — or a financial advisor.”

Celebrating “Burying Celtic Musicians Week”

Is 104 F high? For a temperature, I mean.

For a human temperature.

Did you know that this week is Intersession Week?

What a dumb name. “Intersession Week.” As in “inter,” meaning “to bury,” and “session,” meaning “a Celtic music jam.”

The eighth week of the semester is called “Intersession Week” and there are no classes. Apparently because we’re supposed to bury Celtic musicians or something.

Honour, colour, and 1066

Not long ago, JohnnyB, an American, dared to complain (on this very blog) about my use of Canadian/British spelling — specifically, of the letter “u” in various words such as “colour” and “honour” (comment section of Getting rid of a mould infestation in four steps).

Granted, the English language is not one of the world’s more logical languages.

We’ll begin with box, and the plural is boxes.
But the plural of ox should be oxen, not oxes.
Then one fowl is goose, but two are called geese.
Yet the plural of moose should never be meese.

To add to the complications, when speaking metaphorically we often use the “wrong” form of the plural. For instance, we would say, “Those two dancers are bumbling around like a couple of oxes,” not “a couple of oxen.”

On the other hand, we wouldn’t say “those two are as clever as foxen,” rather than “foxes” — so it’s not like it’s a general rule or anything.

Shaggy Dog Story: How Eustace broke his leg

One more from the sludge pile. I’d planned on saving it for a rainy day (or an exceptionally cold one), but a recent comment made on MikeWJ’s post inspired me to put it in circulation now. I’ll tell you which comment at the end of the story.

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Hey Jimbo, Bob, Tom. How’s about a bit of room by that stove? It’s cold ‘nuff out there to freeze the balls off’n a witch’s teat.

My leg? I was kinda hopin’ nobody would notice ‘cause I don’t want any special treatment an’ all.

Don’t get up Bob. … Oh, you wasn’t? Well, it looked to me like you was kinda thinkin’ about it and I just wanted t’tell you not to bother. Anyways, I got enough room on the end o’ this bench next to Jimbo. Now if only the pickle barrel were a tad closer – why thanks Tom, I believe I will have one.

And don’t go makin’ a big deal of my leg ‘n’ alll. It’s nothin’ more’n a broke bone and I’d just as soon that y’all ignored it, like.

What’s that? Well hell, Bob, a’course I got a red flag strapped to my foot. I may not wanna be conspicuous, but I sure’s hell don’t want some poor fool doin’ a mischief to himself ‘cause he don’t see I’m carryin’ a longer load’n usual. Where’s your sense, man? You stick a red flag on lumber when you’re haulin’ it in that foreign Jap pickup you drive, don’t ya?

Getting rid of a mould infestation in four steps

Yep, that's pretty much how it looked.

Small mould infestations are fairly easy to clean up, but sometimes mould can spread with amazing rapidity.

There are many causes of mould, such as when your hot water tap begins dripping and you ask the landlord to fix it, but then the work order gets lost or something and weeks go by, and the tap is no longer merely dripping, but is actually flowing, and there’s no way you can fix it yourself because all the pipes and shutoff valves are locked behind a little door in the wall, and you remind the landlord several times about the situation, but by now the house has the relative humidity of a Brazilian rain forest and all the corners of the living room, the dining room, and the small bedroom that you use for an office and has bookshelves all along the walls (not the really good kind, but the cheap Ikea shelves, which may not look like much, but are quite adequate for your purposes) are starting to look like they’re covered in that hanging moss you see in movies about New Orleans, except it’s black and really ugly looking.

Plus? I’m Fabulous

It's true -- I do look good in heels.

Recently I received another award, this one from Skye who writes a Weekly Injection of Chuckles. Thanks, Skye.

But, like the others, it has conditions.

1. I must write about my five obsessions.
2. I must pass the award along to five other bloggers.

The problem is, I don’t really obsess over anything.

It’s like I was telling Mr. Wallace.

Mr. Wallace is a man I met on the subway the other day and we got to talking. During our conversation he ranted about the eHealth scandal making news lately. A recent audit revealed that the government agency in charge of establishing a comprehensive, electronic health database in Ontario has squandered a billion dollars or so.

I scribble good

See -- it's a real award, just like the big kids get.

During the most hectic new semester I’ve had in several years, it seems that I won a Superior Scribbler Award.

Twice. I won it twice.

At this rate, I’m going to have to set up a special page just for awards. Counting this one, I now have two.

Or three, if you count the Superior Scribbler Award twice.

Of course, blog awards aren’t quite like other awards. Blog awards require the receiver to put in some work. Winners of the Meme Award, for instance, must follow it up with a blog exposing seven of their innermost thoughts and pass the award on to seven other bloggers.

Timmy

Another story from the sludge pile. I should be back to at least irregular posting in a few more days, but in the meantime, here’s a little tale about Timmy, a normal ten-year-old boy in every way — except, of course, for that whole non-beating heart thing.

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He's dead, Jim! He's dead!

“Technically, I should call the police coroner and report you,” said the doctor looking hopelessly bewildered.

“I’m sorry!?” said Timmy’s mother.

“Well … your boy is dead,” he replied, and instantly cringed. Definitely not the approved method of breaking such news to a mother, he lectured himself. On the other hand, this wasn’t a normal situation.

“Dead?” She looked at him like he was talking a foreign language. He said nothing. Neither did she.

The answer to “Who wrote the book of love?” and other questions from love songs.

Despite Celine Dion’s musical instance that “Love doesn’t ask why,” the fact is, love songs are chock full of questions.

What they’re short on are answers.

In the spirit of I’ll Be Damned if I’m Working on Curriculum Any More This Weekend, I’ve taken it upon myself to research and answer some of these timeless queries.