Sunday, February 25, 2007

A rebellious Canadian

Q: How do you get a hundred Canadians to get out of the swimming pool?

A: You say, "Come on guys. Out of the pool, please."

The thing is, this is probably true. Thus, I have decided to call forth my inner belligerant so that the next time someone says, “Come on guys. Out of the pool, please,” I’m going to answer, “Give me a minute, please. I’m not finished peeing.” Yah! Take that, polite Canadian society!

Anyway... Humouroceros

Saturday, February 24, 2007

I wonder

I wonder how long it takes this person to get ready to go out on a date. Of course, I'm also wondering if it's a guy or a girl.

Anyway... Humouroceros

Thursday, February 15, 2007

A joke

Q: What does a bulimic call two fingers?

A: Dessert
Anyway... Humouroceros

Wednesday, February 14, 2007


Oh by the Jay-zuz, another group of dinosaurs trying to regain past glory because they're too dumb to know when to hang up the skates. Give it a rest boys, please, give it a rest.

Anyway... Humouroceros

Monday, February 12, 2007

Professor Michael Keren

Professor Michael Keren, of the University of Calgary, has come out of his academic cocoon just long enough to pronounce that bloggers “are isolated and lonely, living in a virtual reality instead of forming real relationships or helping to change the world.” He continues, “Bloggers think of themselves as rebels against mainstream society, but that rebellion is mostly confined to cyberspace, which makes blogging as melancholic and illusionary as Don Quixote tilting at windmills."

Well I guess if bloggers were only as grounded in reality as some blobby-butt professor in Calgary (of all places), slurping on fancy coffee drinks in the on-campus café, probably called something twee like 'the Loft', and making pronouncements all over the place, things would be all right, right?

Sorry prof, but slouching around university campus’s all day, writing books with the word ‘blogosphere’ (!) in the title and quoting Beatles lyrics does not make you into some sort of expert on bloggers, or the Beatles, or the ‘blogosphere’. I haven’t helped change the world? Well what have you done, smart-guy? As much as I hate to disillusion you, using a hanky instead of wiping your nose on your sleeve does not count as changing the world.

And, for your information, I am neither isolated nor lonely. I admit that it was difficult after my first dog, Sparky, died. Sparky was great. He was a robo-dog built by the Kobiyashi-maru cyber-pet company out of Tokyo, Japan, but he wasn’t just any robo-dog. He had personality and was quite aware of his surrounding and of me, thank-you very much. I think that they should have given some sort of warning about how Sparky shouldn’t have been fully immersed in water, but that is neither here nor there. It was not my fault. No, not my fault and you, mister professor, can go suck a bug.

Anyway… Humouroceros

My favorite glamour shot of Sparky Sparky and the young Humouroceros

(Some computer editing may have happened here)

Sunday, February 11, 2007

God's protection

I don’t know both sides of the story behind this cartoon so I’ll reserve judgment, but in the meantime:

A farmer hears that there is a flood alert and people in the area should prepare in case they need to evacuate. He doesn’t worry about any evacuation sine he is a devout man and believes that God will protect him.

The water rises and he ignores all calls to evacuate and then one day the farm is completely surrounded by water. A boat arrives and the rescue workers call out to him but he replies that he has nothing to fear and he has no need to leave since God will protect him.

A few days later the waters have risen so much that the farmer is sitting on the roof of his house to stay dry. A helicopter arrives and as it hovers the rescue workers call out to him. Once again he refuses to leave and insists that there is nothing to worry about since God will protect him. The water continues to rise and the farmer drowns.

He arrives at the Pearly Gates where he meets St. Peter, and he isn’t very happy. “What happened?” he asks St. Peter. “I was a devout man and a good man. Why didn’t God protect me?”

St. Peter looks puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replies. “We sent you warnings, a boat and a helicopter. What more did you need?”

Anyway… Humouroceros

The longest undefended border in the world 11

Okay, John, detail-wise this is going to be a bit sparse but if you need one I’ll run up a full report later. I scored a nine-horse and a twelve foot aluminum boat and motored over to Goodentoff’s private castle. Whale lake was kind of rough (as usual) but I made it over in good order. I knocked at the main door which, to my surprise, opened immediately. A fairly severe looking woman stood there looking at me. “You are the one known as Humoroceros,” she said, “correct?”

“Actually, it’s Humouroceros,” I corrected her. “I use the Canadian spelling.”

“What-EVER,” she hissed. “You are expected. Follow me.”

Expected? This was unexpected. I followed her deep into the castle, finally ending up in a covered courtyard. It was a huge area and it was almost totally filled with large oak casks piled to the ceiling far above. There was a small office built off of one wall and that’s where she took me, silently motioning me through the door. I entered and unexpectedly came face to face with Boris Goodentoff himself.

He looked exhausted with large bags under his eyes and a drawn look to his face, but he still managed to smile as he said, “You are the one they call Humouroceros,” he chuckled, “with the Canadian spelling.”

“Actually,” I corrected him, “I’m the one I call Humouroceros, with the Canadian spelling.”

“Excellent. I could use your help.”

Now this was a bit much. “Well you have a funny way of asking for it,” I said.

Boris appeared puzzled. “I apologize but it was short notice that you were here and there was no time to arrange for a grander greeting.”

“No, no, not all this puffery,” I said, waving my arm around. “I mean peppering my Jeep with ice bullets! That was totally offside, mister aider and abettor or the Canadian hotbed of Islamic extremism!”

“Islamic?” he puzzled. “I am a businessman. Besides, ice bullets don’t work.

“Oh yeah? Well is sure worked just fine when it took out the headlight of my Jeep. If you people can make a poison-tipped umbrella or sand-paper toilet-paper I’m sure you could freeze up a couple of ice bullets when you need to.”

“The headlight of your Jeep? Had it occurred to you that this may have been a rock from the road that damaged your headlight?”

I thought for a moment and no, frankly I had not considered that possibility. “So, you can use my help?” I asked.

“Yes. As you may know, my company is the second largest producer of maple syrup in Canada. We own huge tracts of land in northern British Columbia covered in maple groves. The sap is harvested and transported via our maple syrup pipeline down here where it is refined and processed. It is then kegged in oak casks and shipped across the border into the United States, which is the world’s largest consumer of maple syrup. Do you follow so far?”

I nodded thoughtfully and indicated that he should continue. “My competitors in the United States produce a worthy product, but with their warmer weather their trees have a less viscous sap. The texture, the colour, it is inferior in every way. Thus, rather than compete in the open market they have instead resorted to the Patriot Act and the Department of Homeland Security.”

“Both laudable institutions,” I pointed out.

“No doubt. But in this instance they are misused. I cannot get my product across the border as things stand now. My production is at a standstill and I am forced to store casks of maple syrup in my home.”

“Right,” I said. “So it sucks to be you. How can I help?”

“You, Humouroceros, are the perfect person to assist me. You see, you are a nonentity. In the greater, or even the lesser scheme of things, you do not matter, in fact you do not even exist. One face out of several billion is all that you are. Your import on this planet is less than insignificant and ten seconds after you die no-one will remember you had ever lived.”

“You flatter me, sir.”

“You do not matter in any what that even the most average of people should matter. Nothing you have done or ever will do is of any importance at all. People forget…”

“Okay,” I interrupted, “thanks, I get it. And with all these amazing attributes how can I help you?”

“It is simplicity itself. What I need you to do is…” Just then the ceiling burst in and what looked like a converted Correllian freighter settled to the floor. A large crash door opened and a squad of men piled out, quickly moving to cover the entire room. They were dressed in tight, red body-tards with huge, red full head helmets and all were loaded down with and astonishing variety of weaponry.

Nest thing they started blasting away and all the casks of syrup began to fly apart, raining syrup and wood fragments everywhere. I considered my options for a millisecond before hitting the ground, covering my head and hoping for the best. The firing went on for a good long while and I could feel chunks of wood, metal and the spray of syrup mist settling on me, and then it stopped. I peeled my head away from the sticky ground and looked up into the toes of some black loafers. “Well, mister Goodentoff. We finally meet,” a voice said above me.

“I’m not Goodentoff,” I pointed out, “he is.” I then noticed that Goodentoff’s office had disappeared and where it had been there was now a large, square hole gaping in the floor. “Yoicks!” I exclaimed, “You guys whacked him!”

“Not hardly,” said the voice, which belonged to an oddly dressed military type guy. “He had a molevator! What a guy. Outstanding!” He pointed at one of his red guys. “You! Potrzebie! Get down this hole and follow that ‘vator!”

“Sir, yes, sir!” answered the red guy. “And sir! My name is not Potrzebie, sir! It’s…”

“That’s something only your mommy cares about, Potrzebie! Now get moving, soldier!”

“Sir!” then the red guy jumped into the hole and we spent a full minute listening to his wailing scream as it disappeared into the distance. “Billy Bo Jangles!” I gasped horrifiedly, “that’s horrifying! How are you going to get him out of there?”

“Why would I? I’ve got lots of spares. Come on you men, this is a dry hole.” He looked at me. “Was that your small boat outside?”

“Well, I borrowed it.”

“Huh, that’s tough. We trashed it on the way in.”

“Oh,” I said. “Can you give me a ride to the shore?”

“No can do, civvy. You have to swim. Anyway, with all that syrup and stuff on you, you could use the water-time.”

“Give me a break. It’ll take my an hour to swim to shore and it’s winter out there.”

Military guy nodded thoughtfully. “Not my problem, and here’s your break. We’re going to frag this place in about fifteen minutes. You better move.” With that he hopped into his craft and they lifted off.

There’s nothing like incentive to get things moving and I was in the water and about half way to shore when I felt the castle vapourize behind me. Fortunately the auto-photo feature on the Jeep caught the action, so I’ll post those. This looks like it was a bit of a bust. I don’t know for sure who all those folks were but I figure the chances are pretty slim that any of them were Islamic extremists, Canadian or otherwise. Never-the-less, I’m still on the hunt, John, so I’ll keep you posted.

Anyway… Humouroceros

The following photographs have been computer enhanced to make them more compelling. This in no way detracts from the truthiness of the subject matter.

Sunday, February 04, 2007

The longest undefended border in the world 10

I think this is important, John. Please read it carefully. Thank-you.

Boris Goodentoff – KGB Grad photo – circa 1978

Boris Goodentoff: Mysteriously reclusive owner of the Canada West Maple Syrup Collective, which is a wholly owned subsidiary of Goodentoff Enterprises. The C.W.M.S.C. is the largest exporter of maple syrup west of Quecec and is second in size in North America only to La Groves de les Maples Formidable Inc. out of Bec, Quebec. The C.W.M.S.C. is the owner of the largest maple syrup pipe line in the world which runs from the massive maple groves of northern British Columbia, over the Tommy Hunter Saddleback, down to the border with the United States. The B.T. Overdrive pipeline brings the unrefined syrup to the border town of Bender’s Aboot where it is refined and casked for export.

B T Overdrive maple syrup pipeline

Boris Goodentoff himself is very difficult to get information on. The little I have been able to discover with an ultra-dedicated Google search indicates that he was born in Mypoopzfrozin, Siberia in the late 1950’s or the early 1960’s to underemployed manure haulers. He appears to have been a precocious child and his unusual energy (unusual, that is, for the Soviet Union) came to the attention of the village Commissar (or zanpolit), Ivan Sonovavitch. Ivan had the young Boris taken to Moscow for official Soviet assessment and he was entered into the High Achievers Training program of the Pioneers (a Soviet youth group). In 1972 he was transferred to the infamously top-secret training facility, Potemkin Village to be trained as a spy in the west. Indications are that he graduated with honours in 1978 whereupon he was vested as a full Colonel in the KGB and then he was assigned to work a sleeper network in the United States.

How Boris spent his time in the US is unclear as he did a fine job of keeping ‘under the radar’ but there are signs that at different times he worked as a sanitation engineer in Washington, DC, and later he appears to have done some work for the domestic surveillance division of the NSA (the National Security Agency). In 1991 (the year that Communist rule died in Russia) he was employed as the lead mime at the Circ d’Humidité Ambiante based out of Paris, Texas.

At the time one would assume that Boris was torn. On one hand as a good Russian lad he would have wanted to go home and help out. On the other hand, with the KGB effectively no longer an organ of terror, to return to a land that was possibly about to be torn apart by civil war would have been silly. On the other hand Boris probably realized that if Russia turned into a democracy then “as a gesture of friendship” it was possible that they would turn over their spy lists to the US government and he would have been under no illusions as to how he would have been treated as a spy, even a former one, so he lit out for the border, and being a Siberian he headed north.

Once Boris hit the Great White North he apparently decided that he would have to make his own way and so he started his own business. A little bit of study showed that one thing that Canadians liked (not counting hockey, beer, and saying ‘zamboni’ to unsuspecting foreigners) was maple syrup. With his last few hundreds of thousands of dollars he bought the finest maple stands in all of northern British Columbia, and the rest is history.

Oddly enough it turned out that the boy from the frozen steppes of Siberia in the Soviet Union had a real flair for business, which is something that would have totally appalled his Communist indoctrinators. Everything he attempted in the maple syrup game worked and his profits were huge. Boris bought Hump Island on Whale Lake near Bender’s Aboot and built Castle Tarkin, which serves as his home and his corporate HQ. From there he watched as the liquid gold flowed to the refineries and then on into the United States. Money flowed back.

Now John, you are probably wondering why I’m giving you the what-who’s and the why-fores of this Canadian success story, and I’ll tell you. The property on both sides of the hi-way where my headlight was shot out is owned by Goodentoff Enterprises. I’ll get back to you when I have more to report.

Anyway… Humouroceros

Friday, February 02, 2007


I found this exercise in a book that I have decided will henceforth be my favorite exercise (until something better comes along). It is this: you lay on your back with your hands behind your head, your knees slightly bent and your feet flat on the floor. You tighten your glutes (fancy-talk for your butt) and your abs (fancy-talk for your gut) and hold for thirty seconds, then release. Wait fifteen seconds then repeat. Ten reps (repetitions) should do to begin with.

Of course, as you might expect, this exercise benefits your abs and your glutes, which is good, but the best thing is that nobody can tell when you’re doing it. So it someone says, “What are you going to do, lay around all day?” you just say, “Bug off. I’m working out!” Yeah. Feel the burn.

Anyway… Humouroceros

Thursday, February 01, 2007

Ambassador David Wilkins

Well! David Wilkins, the Ambassador to our great, white country from our good friends to the south (that’s the United States) (not Cuba, nope, nope, nope) has seen his way clear to clear to chastising we Canadians for daring to believe that Maher Arar is an innocent man who was falsely arrested by, and at the instigation of our good friends to the south (remember, the United States, not Cuba) sent to Syria to be tortured. Apparently we Canadians have committed our usual error of thinking that we are our own country where the government protects it’s citizens and is outraged when some other government feels it has the right to essentially kidnap Canadians and have them shipped off to some filthy little backwater for ‘aggressive interrogation’, or ‘torture’ as honest people would say. How silly.

It looks like if we Canadians only knew all the facts regarding Mister Arar then we would understand why he was treated in this foul manner and why he is currently not allowed to enter the US, or fly over the US, or watch US television shows. Oh, if our elected officials were only capable of understanding such complicated stuff as ‘intelligence’ then all would be clear.

One thing I know for a stone hard fact is that I personally am incapable of understanding the US style of “intelligence”. Things like the weapons of mass destruction that were in Iraq, Sadam Husseins connection to the 9/11 attacks or how they managed to miss the preparations for those attacks even though they were given a heads up by the previous Administration. I don’t know if the Mission Accomplished declaration about two thousand US soldiers ago was a matter of intelligence or not, but I doubt it.

So thank you, mister Ambassador for giving the skinny to us poor unsophisticated Canadians. We needed that trip to the woodshed and to be told that it is not the duty of the Canadian Government to look out for the interests of Canadian citizens. I mean, how dare they? It’s not like he was born here, or is white or something, right? The tired, the poor, the huddled masses, and the wretched refuse should just stay where they came from anyways!

And to all those millions of folks who are saying that Ambassador David Wilkins is a slithering, pus engorged, freak of nature, I have to protest! I don’t think he is completely filled with pus. Not right to the top at least.

Anyway… Humouroceros

Ambassador David Wilkins on a camping trip