There's snow way we'd get a day off

I flip on the computer at 5:30 this morning, and what do I see? Well, honestly, a scantily clad Jennifer Aniston.

What I find 20 minutes later is a flurry of activity about school buses being cancelled.

Buses were cancelled and a single snowflake had yet to hit the ground. Pre-emptive cancellations. A threat of a snowstorm. In the afternoon.

Don't misunderstand me. I'm all about safety. After all, a school bus full of kids could hit a snow drift and topple over. That concerns me - I could scald myself with my cafe mocha should I need to swerve to avoid injured children on the road.

But at some point over the past 25 years, the people making the call on the what constitutes a "snow day" have become wimpified. Candyassified, if you will.

Like every Valley person of my generation, snow days were few and far between. The school board members were tough as nails. Parents equally hard-assed. And the bus drivers - hardcore every step of the way. And they all worked together to get us kids to school each and every day.

When it was snowing, every kid in the neighbourhood would have an ear glued to the radio in the morning. Would today be the day the buses weren't running? Hell, no. It never happened.

We were bundled up in our snowsuits and Cougar boots (yes, the tan-coloured ones with the red velvety lining) and handed a shovel so we could tunnel our way out the front door and down the driveway. If you think that was cruel, we were also handed a lunch bag with a mock chicken loaf sandwich. I told you the Valley parents were hard-assed.

Snow banks would be to the top of the hydro poles, polar bears would be roaming the neighbourhood and we would hold a glimmer of hope we'd be given the day off. Then you'd hear the heart-breaking roar of the school bus. Nothing would stop that guy. Fueled by 11 gallons of coffee and four pounds of mock chicken, he resembled Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Only he wasn't sporting an axe, but, rather, he was behind the wheel of a souped-up monster truck school bus.

Arriving late was not an option - and we were expected to do our part to make it happen. If we did slip off the road, he'd recruit kids to help him get the bus back on the road. Not the older kids. Or the stronger kids. But the kids wearing corduroy, because if thrown under the rear tire, they provided the best traction.

I told you, we now live in a society of wimps.

Yes, folks, it will snow. We live in the Ottawa Valley - grab your toque, your shovel, your corduroy pants, your mock chicken and get those kids to the bus stop.

McHappy memories of trips to the city

Last week a guy in Wisconsin gobbled down a Big Mac.

No biggie, Mac. We've all done it.

But this guy has done it 25,000 times. Yup. 25,000 Big Macs and counting.

Apparently he's skinny. In good shape. Cholesterol is low. Clean bill of health.

I'm not skinny. Round is my shape. Cholesterol numbers unavailable (my doctor had a stroke when he read them, so I've never seen the test results). And I eat vegetables. Even the gross ones. Honey, toss that skinless chicken breast in the garbage, we're dining at Mickey D's tonight.

And doctors went on the record at the time of the record-breaking burger saying they don't recommend this type of diet.

McDuh.

Honestly, I couldn't care less about this guy ingesting two Big Macs every day. That's what he does. And what does he get for it? The McDonald's in his hometown put up a sign under the Golden Arches that read, "Congrats Don Gorske 25000 Big Macs."

Wow.

Now that's something for committing your life to this multi-million dollar company to the point where your doctor draws blood out of your arm, and comes up with a vial of Special Sauce.

But it is what it is.

I'm not going to lie. I love Big Macs. Have no problem eating them cold for breakfast. In fact, I like to do that.

And this obsession with cold Big Macs began in elementary school in the late 1970s. In Arnprior and Renfrew, there were no McDonald's to be found. So, when you went on a school trip to Ottawa (as opposed to the only two school trips taken further into the Valley - the Bonnechere Caves and the ever-exciting Petawawa Forestry Station), you couldn't care less about visiting the museums. But a road trip to the city was exciting for one reason: there were McDonald's restaurants in the city.

So whenever I came home with a permission slip for a school trip to Ottawa, my brother was in my face waving a $20-bill ... wanting an armload of Big Macs. I was the only kid on the museum-bound bus with a full-size Igloo cooler. After all, a Big Mac didn't cost close to 5 bucks like it does today, so $20 went a long way.

And remember those funky old styrofoam containers from back in the day?

So when I came home with a wheelbarrow full of Big Macs, some obviously went into the fridge.

And under the shroud of darkness, I would sneak into the fridge and scarf down as many cold Big Macs as I could before brothers or sister woke up.

And the sad part was, when we were quizzed by the teacher the next day about the trip to the museum, I was lost.

Teacher: What did the native Canadians eat while on their long canoe voyages?

My answer: Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions all on a sesame seed bun.

(That's easy for me to say ... check out this old 1970s commercial)

Try to stop singing this - I dare you!

Sometimes in this world, few words are needed.
Such is the case when it comes to this video.
A true classic.
Bugs Bunny and a fiddle. Does it get any better than that?
Just try and get the tune out of your head.
For the past hour I've been singing "Grab a fence post hold it tight, whomp your partner with all your might ..."
If this doesn't make you smile, get yourself to a doctor, ASAP.
And yes, when you walk in, feel free to say - "What's up, Doc?"

Comfort and lack of style

Have you ever driven in a car that is so comfortable that you feel like you're sitting in your favourite chair in your living room?

If so, then you probably took a test drive in Chevy mini-van.

Most likely the modified version where some idiot removed the front passenger seat and replaced it with a rocker-recliner.

Like any good Valley boy, I tell you no lies.

The OPP sent out a press release this week about seat belts and how important it is to buckle up. In that release, they refer to this clown from Wendover (near Prescott and Russell - NOT in the Ottawa Valley. Repeat: NOT in the Valley) who plucked the seat out of a van and threw in this recliner.

According to the OPP, this isn't such a good idea. Something about it not being bolted to the floor of the vehicle. Could get killed if you crash. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Two things burn me about this:

1) If you're going to put in a recliner, think comfort. That chair looks like he found it in a ditch somewhere. Probably thrown out when my granny cleaned out her living room circa 1978 and removed all chairs that had the type of upholstery (refer to: "wool" in your dictionary) that caused severe itchiness and reeked of Peter Jackson cigarettes and mothballs.

2) Any intelligent person knows that a recliner needs to recline. There's simply no room to put your feet up in that van. Sheesh. Some people are so stupid.

No beer at the fish shack? WTF?

Tell me! Who said we can't drink? Tell me!

The OPP sent out a press release this week to those who have fish shacks (aka ice shacks).

In a nutshell, the release says: drinking booze at a shack is illegal. It's not your home. You don't have a permit to drink there. So it's a no-no. And they'll be watching for those who are tipping back anything other than pop, coffee or lake water.

Do the cops have nothing better to do that send out crap like this?

What a waste of time.

It's enough to drive a man to drink.

Of course, anyone who has spent time at a fish shack knows you don't go there to drink beer. Or whiskey. Or rum. Or vodka. Or Caesars that were mixed in an old Igloo cooler that sits on the top bunk.

Of course not. It's the last thing you think of doing at the fish shack.

I remember racing out to the shacks on White Lake back in the day, on a Friday night in January, so we could all sit around playing bridge, snacking on little crustless cucumber sandwiches and brewing a pot of chamomile tea.

Come on. No drinking at the fish shack? WTF?

At the colony of shacks on White Lake, one guy didn't even cut a hole in the floor of his shack. It wasn't built for fishing. It was built for drinking. Getting away from all the crap and hoisting back beverages all weekend.

Now the cops are saying it's a no-no.

Then a follow up report in the Ottawa Sun says the release is confusing people who thought it was legal to drink in your shack. And I was one of them.

Drinking and driving - not cool. Drinking and snowmobiling - not cool. Being able to park your vehicle, sit in the shack and have a few cocktails and spend the night (or get a lift home with a DD) - very cool.

Put the energy into the RIDE programs and getting drunks off the road, the snowmobile trails and the water.

Cops should be fishing for drunk drivers, not driving fishermen to drink.

Photo at right: Now that's a fish shack where the owners may have a beer or two.

Good morning class.Welcome back to Learning to Speak Valley 101. In today's class you'll learn words and phrases that will be vitally important if you are to understand what in the hell that Valley guy or gal is talking about.

This special class is geared towards Valley folks and how they describe a weekend of "celebrating" in a way that includes alcohol.

In other words - today's class will help you to learn just how much "celebrating" someone enjoyed by the way they describe their weekend.

You can learn to tell if it was a tame, wild or (not-so) memorable party.

Here's how you can tell:

Tame Weekend

If someone tells you they:

• Enjoyed some cocktails
• Tipped back a few pints
• Downed a beverage or two
• Scarfed down a few barley sandwiches
• Emptied a few brown bottles

Example: "We were at a family barbecue and it was pretty low key - the wife enjoyed a few cocktails and I tipped back a few pints. Then we played euchre with the in-laws. Just sitting with the mother-in-law made me want to empty a few more brown bottles, but I didn't."

VERDICT: Tame weekend (with sympathy to the poor SOB)

Wild Weekend

If someone tells you they were:

• Hammered
• Boiled
• Shnockered
• Pickled
• Loaded
• Three sheets to the wind (if they're in their 50s or older)
• Lit up
• Blistered
• Tanked
• Ripped to the t*ts
• Sloshed
• Inebriated
• Pie-eyed
• Bent out of shape
• Soused
• Liquored up
• Well lubricated
• Smashed
• Totally stoopid
• Smashed
• Mashed
• Plastered
• Bombed
• Buggered up
• Comatosed
• Twisted
• Wrecked
• Messed up
• S**t-faced
• Feelin' no pain
• Destroyed
• Hugging the porcelain

Example: "I had a couple of pints and when I started feelin' no pain, out came the shooter menu. An hour later I was well lubricated and decided it was time for the whisky. Next thing you know, I was shnockered and feelin' totally stoopid. By 3 a.m., I was hugging the porcelain and, man, did that cold toilet bowl ever feel nice against my face."

VERDICT: A wild night. No doubt he remembered the beer and the shooter menu coming out. But his spouse won't let him forget the rest of the night, including the bits he left out about stripping down to his shorts and flexing while standing on a barstool. She'll keep reminding him. For a long time. A loooooong time.

ONE FOR THE AGES

It was simply an epic weekend if someone tells you they:

• Will pay you back every dime you spent on bail
• Aren't 100% sure, but think they got married
• Wonder if you could help them read what their new tattoo says
• Hope you could tell them where they left their pants
• Are pretty sure they had two eyebrows when the weekend began
• Really hope you can drive their new friend Kandi Kane (as in: "Gentlemen, put your hands together for the lovely Kandi Kane") home as you seem to have misplaced your car and are reluctant to ask your girlfriend
• Feel as brain-dead and clueless as a Maple Leafs fan

Example: "Man, what day is it?"

VERDICT: Run to the computer and type your name on YouTube to see what you did last weekend.

(Disclaimer: We are no way endorsing drinking to excess. Trust me, you don't want to end up as brain-dead and clueless as a Maple Leafs fan)

Waging war on the earwig army

Attention all earwigs who regularly read this blog: beware. I am declaring war on you and all of your freakin' relatives.

Yup, you read it here first.

The war has begun for the liberation of Marshall-land.

It's not going to be pretty. In fact, it's going to get ugly. But I will be victorious.

And children will read about this bloody battle in their history books, and look at this as a turning point in world events - the day that man proved he was smarter than insect.

For the past few weeks, an army of earwigs has desceneded on my house. They occupy my dishcloth. They have set up camp near my garbage can. They use my kitchen sink as an exercise area. They have claimed any bag of chips or loaf of bread that sits open on my countertops.

And I am not alone.

After an exhaustive campaign to find out if anyone else in the neighbourhood has been invaded, I realize this earwig blitz is not limited to my place. Actually, I only emailed one person - but in the recent heat, even typing was exhausting. But this person also has earwigs running around his house.

But not for long.

I have had it with earwigs scurrying across my kitchen floor. I need to take it up a level.

I have Googled. I have drawn up a blueprint for war.

What exactly will I do? I'm starting off old school: stomping, squishing and squashing. But I will be relentless.

I have won the battle with ladybugs. I have taken out the flies. Now the earwigs are in my crosshairs.

If you have any other ideas on how to get rid of this little bastards, just let me know.

Forward ... march!