Category: humour

Emotional Baggage

Several years ago while travelling around Ukraine, I entered the only shop in a remote village to buy a couple of cold drinks. Placing my purchases on the counter, the elderly shopkeeper tallied my bill on an abacus then pushed it toward me. Not entirely up to speed on ancient counting tools which predate our own numeral system, I played it safe and handed him the equivalent of $5 in Ukrainian money. This, apparently, posed a problem and he asked if I had anything smaller. I replied, regrettably, that I did not. Thinking on it, he disappeared into the back before returning with a duckling which he duly handed over as my change.

The problem with holiday brochures is that they rarely cover an abacus/duck scenario. The pictures in them are enticing but the language is, at best, euphemistic and at worst, a flat out lie. And while it’s true that every situation can’t be covered, a bit of a heads-up regarding waterfowl as legal tender would go a long way for novices like moi.

Image result for cute funny duck

Here then, is a list of terms from holiday brochures with their true meanings:

in-flight meal: UN ration with complimentary poppadom

in-flight entertainment: the sequel to the remake of the original, only this one’s set in the future where everyone can fly and stuff

short transfer to hotel: bring earplugs

car rental: how are you at replacing a head gasket?

bus service: you may be seated next to a goat in labour

local delicacies: if we can catch it, we’ll cook it

chef’s special: cake with a fly on top

all-inclusive resort: local excursions aren’t worth the risk of being kidnapped

in-house entertainment: an old man who takes out his artificial eye for the kids

cultural sensitivities: lose the MAGA hat

conservative: lose the rainbow flag beach towel

stunning wildlife: pack an anti-venom kit

365 days of sunshine: locals view redheads with suspicion

steeped in history: when in doubt, tell them you’re Canadian

friendly locals: a warlord wishes to marry your daughter

vibrant nightlife: gunfire

local amenities: you’re sharing a well with the next village

stunning scenery: ignore the oil refinery

exotic spices: stick to ketchup

unspoiled wilderness: don’t go in unarmed

tranquil setting: abandoned due to an ebola outbreak

health clinic: the vet will see you now

museum exhibits: those artefacts our country forgot to cart off when we left sharpish 150 years ago

EU Turn

So we’re out of the EU.

Although I’ve lived in the UK over 30 years, I still play the role of casual observer even during times of great upheaval. This does not mean I’m short of an opinion or two, it simply means I know when to put up and when to shut up. Regarding the national catharsis that is Brexit, something that never fails to amuse me is hearing the British refer to the continent as Europe.

“Why do you want to leave the EU?”

“It’s Europeans… they’re all bonkers.”

“But aren’t you Europeans as well?”

“Are Canadians Americans?”

For some it’s much more straightforward while for others it’s a case of perspective. After years of soul-searching, many British have reluctantly conceded that they have no affinity whatsoever with foreign tongues, Carl Jung and snail croquette in vinaigrette. They genuinely enjoy visiting their European cousins on holiday but also enjoy returning home again, to the UK, where they believe good fences make good neighbours. So the guilt complex and hand-wringing need to end because Britain is no different from anyone else who decides to call time on a relationship that isn’t working.

Growing up in Toronto I had classmates from Italy, Greece, France, Ukraine, Germany, Poland, Spain, The Netherlands, Hong Kong, Jamaica, Japan, Vietnam, Korea and thought nothing of it. Everyone was from everywhere. I myself was the son of immigrants and knew what it was like to be a hybrid kid: Canadian-sounding with accented parents who ate some pretty weird food.

And a large portion of my diet back then was ethnic humour – not racist humour – ethnic humour. There’s a difference and even as a kid I knew an ethnic joke from a slur because I was raised properly in a good community. On TV I’d watch Joan Rivers tell Jewish jokes, Richard Pryor tell black jokes, Dean Martin tell Italian jokes and Don Rickles tell jokes about everyone. And everyone laughed because we all recognised our own cultural eccentricities within them, along with those relatives certain jokes described to a tee.

Tell these same jokes today and you’ll be arrested by the Fun Police.

The referendum was, of course, about more than Polish plumber jokes. There were serious constitutional and inter-governmental sore points between the UK and the EU which neither side could resolve. This, however, doesn’t mean we’re no longer friends who can share a laugh among ourselves.

We’re simply getting rid of the joint bank account and the in-laws.

So then, what about the future?

Well, my guess is that nothing will change because nothing ever does. The British will still holiday in Europe, continentals will still come here to take selfies with the pigeons in Trafalgar Square and the French, as is their way, will continue to dine on creatures we wouldn’t even poke with a stick.

Plus ça change, eh?

Tale End

Where’s Monica? a colleague asked

The heating’s not turned up enough

It’s not as if she’s over-tasked

To take care of this kind of stuff.

Where’s Monica? another chimed

It’s 9:05, we’ve got no milk

Do we now have to have her timed?

Her job? Her breaks? Her type? Her ilk?

I never bother, you know me

Head down, work hard and see it through

But did she get the gluten-free?

If not, my bowels will turn to glue.

The printer’s low on paper too

Delivery was yesterday

It’s just one flight, it isn’t two

So why the need for this delay?

I saw her tumble down the stairs

The look of shock upon her face

Those sandwiches went everywhere

And crystal’s not cheap to replace.

What if she’s poorly, do we know?

Those files won’t files themselves today

Or HR, did they let her go?

For if they did, they didn’t say.

No, Monica is fine and well

She hasn’t quit, she wasn’t fired

Her colleagues didn’t hear her tell

In one week’s time she’d be retired.

So now she sits as each day ends

With husband, Jim, and the odd glass

And smiles at what she left for them:

A photocopy of her ass.

Consequential Confidential

Image result for top secret Hillary sunglasses

I think at times, oh yes, I think
That I would make the best Rat Fink
The sort who listens to friends’ tales
Then snitches, sending them to jails
For foolery and crimes and tricks
(those deeds which get you two-to-six)
But then again I’d better not
They are a vengeful, wicked lot
Who’d want to even up the score
For they know me and I’ve done more…

Dead Giveaway

“I’m writing my will,” I announced.

“Oh my God!” Alison covered her mouth. “Are you dying? Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

“No, I’m not dying, but if I were I hope to God there’d be more on offer than tap water.”

“Save it for your nurse,” Alison fired back. “You scared me just then.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. No, I’ve decided I want to leave money to a good cause.”

“You have money?” Alison appeared surprised.

“I might have, by then,” I was a tad taken aback by the question.

“Do you consider anyone present a good cause?” Dave ventured, taking a visual inventory of my lounge.

“Don’t worry, you’re all getting something but I want to leave a legacy, something worthwhile.”

“Oh, great,” Laverne looked at the others. “I’m getting his Margaret Atwood Anthology while a bunch of rotten schoolkids are going to score an iPad.”

“No, I’ve been looking into it and I think I’d like to help save the rhino.”

“Since when?”

“Since about three o’clock because it’s taken me all morning to think of a good cause.”

“Why rhinos?” Dave was curious.

“I did a project on them in school and got an A+ on it, so I guess I’m saying thanks in my own little way.”

“And which rhinos are we talking about in particular?” Laverne cast her line.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean which rhinos? Javan, Sumatran, black, white… and I think there’s a fifth. You guys?”

“It says here there’s a great, one-horned rhino,” Alison scrolled through her phone.

I smelled an ambush.

“The white rhino. I’m saving white ones.”

“What do you have against black ones?”

“Nothing.”

“According to the statistics, there are a lot more white rhinos. Maybe you should help the black ones,” Alison scrolled further. “Oh, wait… the black ones have been making a comeback. That’s good.”

“Actually, it’s the black rhinos you hear about in the news all the time. You don’t really hear much about the white rhino anymore,” Dave joined in. “And are they even white or is that just from rolling around in the dust because they actually look sorta grey.”

“There are thousands of white rhinos and less than one-hundred of the Javan and Sumatran ones,” Laverne was also on her phone. “Actually, those last two don’t even have horns, just bumps. And they’re a lot smaller than the African ones. Are they still rhinos if they no longer look like rhinos?”

“Maybe they’re hybrids. Fifty percent rhino, fifty percent… I dunno… hippo. Someone will have DNA-tested their lineage.”

“Maybe they no longer think of themselves as rhinos. Maybe they identify as something completely different.”

I could feel it all slipping away from me.

“Maybe they were shipped to Asia,” Alison suggested, “although why would you transport rhinos anywhere? Saying that, if they were relocated back to Africa they’d be disadvantaged compared to the ones with horns.”

“The other rhinos would probably attack them,” Laverne turned to me. “Is that what you want? Rhino gang wars?”

“I’m not following your logic,” I replied, “but do go on.”

“You want to donate money to the white rhino who outnumber all the others combined-“

“-yeah, but hold on… proportionally, all the others are doing better than the white ones now,” Alison interrupted her. “And did you know that the northern white rhino is down to its last two?”

“In the whole world?” Dave checked he’d heard correctly.

“Yep, there are only two females left. “

“Then it’s the females we ought to be helping; they’re the ones producing the next generation,” Laverne decided. “We don’t even need the males, just a cup of their you-know-what. What are you doing to help these two females?”

“They’ll be in captive breeding programs,” I suggested, tentatively. “They’ll breed them with the other whites.”

“Why not the black ones?” came the riposte. “They’re the ones being shot left, right and centre. It’s not the white ones being killed, is it?”

“And what if the females don’t want to breed? Don’t they have a say in it? Why is it up to the males?” Alison queried.

Update: I’ll be leaving everything to the goldfish.