My Green Heaven

Some of my long time blogging friends may remember that I moved about 6 months ago. I live in a nice suburban neighborhood with identical houses and identical yards as far as the eye can see. The electric and phone lines are buried underground so as not to spoil the picturesque view with ugly poles and wires. Every morning when it's quiet and the streets are empty I look out my window to see the sun rise over "my" neighborhood. As I take in this view I feel like the king of suburbia. It's perfect. A little too perfect. In the evening couples walk their dogs and greet each other cheerily. Joggers and roller bladers cruise the streets looking healthy and wholesome. Kids play street hockey and skateboard. If a Hollywood director wanted to cast a neighborhood to play the picture-perfect, average American neighborhood, my neighborhood would be a shoo-in for the part. There's just one problem. Everyone else's lawn.

As far as I can tell, every other homeowner in my neighborhood is psychotic about their lawn care. I have no idea how anyone with a full-time job can devote as much time to landscaping and grooming their lawns as the people do. The thing is, I don't even see them doing it. It's like they've got Edward Scissorhands living in their homes and he only comes out at night. Don't get me wrong, I'm no slacker. I mow my lawn often enough that if I parked my car in the yard I could still find it the next day. I once owned a pool table whose surface wasn't as smooth as these people's yards. And it's not just the grass. It's the little scenic settings they create. Little benches in a tiny grove of trees in the corner of the yard. A rustic wheelbarrow with flowers growing out of it just so. Not a tree or bush is without perfect little border blocks surrounding it. It's like I'm living in The Stepford Neighborhood. Talk about peer pressure! I'm afraid that if I skip mowing my lawn one week they'll form a lynch mob and storm my suburban castle with torches and pitchforks, being careful not to step on any landscaping on the way over. I refuse to cave into this peer pressure to meet their insane standards of lawn care. I do have a plan though. You knew I would didn't you?

I'm going to buy lawn fertilizer. Lots of it. No, not for my yard you idiot! For theirs! At night while my neighbors sleep, exhausted from another day of landscaping, I'll be out there fertilizing their lawns, causing them to grow at an astronomical rate. Their lawns will be like those Play-Doh people where you can see the hair growing right out their heads. There will be no way they can keep up! And I'll be planting weeds everywhere, even if I have to pollinate them myself. I'll have the best yard in the neighborhood within a week! (pause for maniacal laughter) This should work perfectly, unless Edward Scissorhands catches me.

Please Don't Read This!

See? It worked. You read it anyway. The title and your reading of these words illustrates my point perfectly. Based on that point I am going to embark on a new career. Until I'm elected President, or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first, I'm going to pursue a career as a Reverse Psychologist. As a therapist, it has been my experience that very few people follow the advice they are given. In fact, some people who are determined not to be controlled by "the man" will do the exact opposite of what they are told just out of spite. These people will be my new patients. Here's how a few sessions might go:

1. Female Patient: "(sniff, sniff) Dr. Phil, my boyfriend drinks, cheats on me, and steals money from my purse so he can gamble."
Me: "Whoa nellie! Stop the presses! You've got yourself a keeper there! If you don't marry him and have his children then I will! Don't let him get away!"

2. Depressed Patient: "I've been very depressed since I lost my job and my wife left me. I'm thinking of suicide. What should I do?"
Me: "Well if I were you the last thing I'd do would be to apply for new jobs and start dating again. You don't need that kind of trouble! You'd be better off staying at home and wallowing in your misery. And whatever you do, absolutely do not get any exercise or take care of your hygiene!"

3. Anger Management Patient: "Dr. Phil, my boss is really pissing me off. I think he's got it in for me. He's always checking on my work and yelling at me in front of the other employees. I've had it! The next time he does that I'm going to punch him and quit on the spot!"
Me: "That is brilliant! You saw right through his plan. That son of a bitch is obviously trying to provoke you into a fight so he can fire you! You're right not to let him manipulate you like that. Whatever you do, avoid doing good work or complaining to his supervisors about his behavior. If you do that they're likely to fire him and then where would you be?"

See? It's a brilliant idea. How could it go wrong? I hope you enjoyed this post, but whatever you do, don't leave a comment. I would hate that.

Coming Next Fall: American President!

Don't wanna be an American idiot.
One nation controlled by the media.
Information nation of hysteria.
It's going out to idiot America.

-Green Day

Wednesday night America voted and chose their next singing superstar. A spasmodic gray-haired man who dances like he's just dropped a radio into the bath with him. Over 63 million votes were cast. As has been widely reported, that number is more than any President in history has ever received. American Idol is so popular that the Fox network has run it two nights a week for the last 4 months and won the ratings time slot every time. "Idol," as the fans call it, is talked about in every workplace, reported on in every newspaper, and mentioned on every news program. America feels passionately about their right to choose. There has been nothing since World War II that has united Americans the way that Idol has. Even if you don't watch it, you know it exists and most likely you know the names. This next statement is supposition on my part, but I defy anyone to find evidence to the contrary: More Americans can name Simon, Paula, Randy and Ryan than can name the Vice-President.

Technology has made Americans lazy. Unless we can see it on a little, glowing screen "it" makes little impact upon our lives. There is a very real possibility that newspapers, books, and magazines will be something our grandchildren will only read about on history websites. Equally obsolete is the American electoral system. We've elected the head of our country, the so-called leader of the free world, by the same method for 150 years. My question is, how do we get voters interested and motivated in our political system again?

The answer is simple. Why not make our Presidential election more modern? Why not choose our President the way we choose our American Idol? Let's make it a t.v. show where voters can call, I.M., or text message our votes as many times as we want as we narrow the field down to two candidates. With our current system Americans have very little say in who the final two Presidential candidates are. I want the choice back! The t.v. show, American President, could have auditions in several cities with a panel of intelligent but entertaining judges weeding out the obvious losers. Sure, we'd have a few William Hungs or Crazy Daves, but after our last few Presidents whose to say we didn't already elect the equivalent? If politics were more entertaining, more people would be informed and invested in voting. And yes, I am proposing that people get to vote more than once if they want to. Why not? If you care that passionately about your candidate that you'll spend two hours a week text messaging then you deserve more say in the outcome than the lump who sits on their couch eating cheetos and won't lift a finger except to lick that orange stuff off. I can't imagine anything more entertaining and suspenseful than to hear Ryan Seacrest say, "America voted and I'm going to tell you who your next President will be....after the break."

What Do You Think?

Cliff reached the shed and corralled the swinging door. As he prepared to close and latch it, a little girl’s voice issued from within. "Can you help me?" He could barely make out a small; dirt streaked face in the back corner, as if the child was sitting, almost hiding in the darkness. Cliff stepped forward into the shed. The mixed smells of dirt, gasoline and grass clippings flooded his senses. He heard the slight shuffle of a foot on the dirty, wooden floor behind him and to the left. As he began to turn something slammed into his skull. Lights and blackness seemed to explode simultaneously in his vision as he fell forward. When he hit the floor Cliff felt a sickening crack in his nose. He rolled over, trying to clear his blurred vision. He could make out a shadow moving towards him. He rolled onto his side, feeling cold metal beneath his face. He reached to feel it, grabbed whatever it was and swung as hard as he could in the direction of the looming shadow. Cliff felt the metal object connect and register a satisfying crunch as his unknown assailant fell to his knees. As Cliff lay prone on his back, exhausted from the effort it took to defend himself, he could see a glint of metal as the blurry shadow raised something above his head. Cliff heard a whoosh and rolled to his right. A shot of pain momentarily cleared his vision as his broken nose grazed the floor. He heard a thunk as a shovel stabbed into the wooden floor inches behind his head. Cliff swung the metal crowbar he had picked up, striking the shadow in the largest, darkest area. He hoped he had broken a few ribs. He heard the dark, blurry shadow gasping for breath. It sounded like the rough, coarse breathing of a very large man. The dirty-faced girl rushed past the two fallen men and out into the storm. Cliff could feel the rain blowing in on his face as thunder rolled across the sky overhead. The open shed door continued to blow and slam against the side of the shed. Cliff crawled towards his attacker, barely seeing, hoping to inflict more damage. A kick to his head ended that hope as the now very solid shadow pulled itself to it's feet and limped out of the shed and into the gray, wet day. Cliff lay on his back exhaling, unintentionally blowing a bubble through the flow of hot, sticky, crimson fluid pouring from his swollen nose. His head began to swim as everything around him began to sway and spin. He closed his eyes, "I'll just rest for a minute," he thought. As Cliff passed into unconsciousness his cell phone went off, “She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean, she was the best damn woman I had ever seen…”

My question is, does this sound like a convincing fight scene? I've never written one before.

I Have A Blogroll?

Some of you may have noticed that after over a year of blogging I've finally started a blogroll. It's on the left side of the page after my list of previous posts. I always skipped having one because I didn't want to leave anyone out, and I still don't. If you don't see the name of your blog in the list, then it's because I hate you and the insipid little comments that you try to pass off as wit. Just kidding! If you're not listed yet just leave a comment here or send me a quick e-mail and I'll add you. The blogroll is more for me than you. Now that I have it, I've found it much easier to remember to regularly visit all of you who have been nice enough to comment on my posts. You may not want me visiting your blog that often, but now you're stuck with it.

Follow Your Nose

Several months ago I asked readers that if they had a choice of powers to be invisible or have the ability to fly, which would you choose? Most people picked invisibility so that they could do sneaky things. On my way to work today I witnessed something that made me think that we all believe we're invisible sometimes. Based on what I observed today as well as what I've seen most mornings during my commute there appears to be a large percentage of the population who believe they are not visible through the windows of their cars.

Last week I followed a man in a pick up truck who was reading the newspaper while he drove. Not just at stop lights, but while the vehicle was in motion. He didn't have the newspaper folded up small either. He had it wide open on the steering wheel as if he was home having his morning coffee. Fortunately for him, the logo on the side of his truck indicated that he worked for a collision repair shop. It would be redundant to mention all the women doing hair and makeup as they drive, including one I saw using a curling iron. Do they even make car adapter plugs for those? I once read a news story about a man who was arrested for watching t.v. while he drove. He had literally bolted a small television to the dashboard. Sheesh! Even I know that you have to keep the t.v. down on the seat so the cops don't see you. This guy must have had cable because I didn't see a satellite dish on the roof of his car.

The worst thing I've ever seen was today. I was driving along studying my fellow travelers and doing a little car shopping when I spotted a black Subaru Tribeca (going south on I-390, in case the driver is a blogger, now you know I saw you). "That's a nice looking car," I thought to myself. Even if it's two years until I'm in the market for a new car I'm still always shopping in my mind. In the far left lane I gradually gained on the Subaru. It was sleek, black, and looked very new. Even cars look good in black don't they? As I pulled alongside, admiring it's sleek lines, I looked in at the driver. I always look directly in at other drivers just in case it's some one I might know. The driver was a well-dressed woman, a professional of some type judging by her attire, appearing to be in her mid-50's. She also seemed to believe that the glass windows of her car made her invisible to others. She was picking her nose. This was not just any nose picking. She was in up to her elbow. She was digging as if in pursuit of an insect that had climbed deep into her sinuses. These weren't even tinted car windows. This was such a disgusting display that I felt nauseous and immediately hit the accelerator hoping to drive away from the grotesque image now burned into my brain. Needless to say, there is no way I'm ever going to buy a used Subaru Tribeca. I don't even think I could stomach a new one.

See You Later Alligator!

"Well crocodile rocking is something shocking
When your feet just can't keep still
I never knew me a better time and I guess I never will"
-- Elton John

Apparently Elton hasn't been hanging out in Florida lately. In the past week and a half three Florida women were killed by alligators. What?!!? That never happens, and now three times in a week?!!? Last year about this time I blogged about three people killed in about a week and a half by sharks off the coast of Florida. It sounds to me like the sharks and alligators have a bet going about who can eat the most humans. Is it just me, or is everyone starting to question the intelligence of Floridians? If one person is killed by a large animal with a mouth like a woodchipper I might consider it a fluke occurrence. If it happens twice in one week, I'm pretty damn sure I'll be avoiding that creatures habitat for a while. Apparently if you live in Florida now you can't go in the water and you can't stay on land either. Oh, and Florida is hit by a hurricane at least once a year. That's O.K. though because they need the rain, if only to cut down on the world's largest population of gigantic insects. It sounds to me like nature is sending humans a pretty clear message about Florida: Get the hell out.

More evidence that Floridians may not be invited to the next Mensa convention is the fact that two of their major universities, the places where smart people should be, seem to revel in the infamy of Florida's lethal pitfalls. These two universities have named their school mascots after things which routinely kill people in their state. How endearing huh? There's the University of Miami Hurricanes and, getting more ironic by the day, the University of Florida Gators.

Hmm... I've successfully alienated Canada and Florida, who's next? Oh, that's right, Australia. Don't worry my Aussie friends, I haven't forgotten about you.

Just A Quick Thought

The other day I was sent into a fond remeberance of my childhood. A boy of maybe 9 in my neighborhood rode his bicycle by me. He had cards in his spokes so it made that cool pseudo- motorcycle noise as he went by. Today I saw a bicycle cop. I think bicycle cops should put cards in their spokes. No purse snatcher is ever going to be intimidated if he hears you switch into third gear while pursuing him, but if you've got that almost motorcycle sound, now that's the sound of justice.

When A Stranger Calls...

Last week it was revealed that sometime after the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, 2001 the National Security Administration has been monitoring our telephone calls. Who we call, when we call, and how long we call for is all getting logged somewhere in Washington D.C. I'm fine with that, but I figure as long as it's going on we might as well have fun with it. Now I realize that my phone calls in general are probably of very little interest to the U.S. government. I further realize that anyone who was not born in this country is probably getting their calls monitored on a very regular basis. My plan is this: I want everyone who has a friend or co-worker of Arabic descent to call up their friend and have the following conversation:

"Hey, it happened again. Hillary came over last night about 2:30 in the morning. Man was she drunk again. She said she can't take it anymore. She said that she started this thing with George just to get back at Bill for the whole Monica thing, but George is just getting too weird. She said that Dubya actually likes to switch roles and dress up as the woman. Yeah, and then he wanted Cheney to watch. He said that Dick would join, but his heart couldn't take it. Yeah, and he asked her to push "the big red button" again. He mentioned something about doing it on Air Force 1 next. What do you think I should tell her? How can she get out of this?"

It doesn't matter what your friend replies. If you don't have a friend of foreign heritage to make this call to, just go through the phone book and pick a foreign sounding name at random. That might be better. Just fire off the dialogue I've provided as fast as you can before you pretend that you got a wrong number. That way it might make it to the press quicker anyway. Of course, we already know the government is monitoring my blog because of all my subversive ideas, so the jig might already be up on this joke. Anyone out there want to volunteer to receive my call? I'm pretty sure if I'm calling out of the country they'll be listening.

The Guy Code of Conduct: Part 2

This is the second installment of what may someday appear on the shelves of your local bookstore. The Guy Code of Conduct is that immeasurably large and esteemed volume of guidelines that governs the behavior of every man on Earth. Women have long suspected such a book exists, but have yet to find proof. The Guy Code of Conduct is so pervasive and morally binding within the male culture that virtually every major war in history was directly caused by a violation of "The Code." To help further demystify the male species, here are two more rules from The Code.

No. 7: "If two or more men go to a bar, nightclub, bowling alley, or any public place together, the driver is well within his rights to leave his friends stranded if he has the opportunity to take a woman home. The members of his group left behind must not ever become upset by this or begrudge the driver this opportunity." This rule is so ingrained in men that if, in July of 1969, Neil Armstrong had met an alien chick on the moon and wanted to take Apollo 11 to Mars for a little E.T. make-out session, Buzz Aldrin would have patted him on the back and said, "Don't worry about me. I'll find a ride home."

No. 10: The Day After a Date Phone Call. This is one of the more important rules in The Code. It states, "Under no circumstances must you ever contact a woman by phone, e-mail, or any other method within 24 hours of the conclusion of your first date with her. To do so would likely bring about the end of civilization as we know it. If you break this rule we will find you and kill you." In our newsletter, the deaths of Jimmy Hoffa, Adolf Hitler, Pope John Paul II, and almost every Kennedy are attributed to violations of this rule. A subsection of this rule outlines a very specific schedule by which contact with women is allowed after the initial hook-up. If I revealed that schedule here my name would likely join that list above.

Jose Can You See?

Recently a Spanish speaking singer recorded a version of the United States national anthem in Spanish. This created a bit of an uproar as President Bush stated that he believes "people who want to be a citizen of this country ought to learn English and they ought to learn to sing the national anthem in English." What the hell is George Bush talking about? Have you heard his speeches? He barely speaks English! Then Sen. Lamar Alexander, R-Tenn., introduced a resolution affirming that the song, pledge allegiance to the flag and other "statements of national unity" should be done in English. These right-wing Republican nut jobs are killing me. It just astounds me that there are so many crazy people elected to office. I'm as patriotic as the next guy, but wasn't our country built by allowing immigrants from other nations here. The only people that aren't descended from immigrants in the United States are the Native Americans, and they didn't complain that we didn't sing our national anthem in their language. Que carajo esta pasando?

The Running of The Bulls

It begins promptly at 8:50 a.m. The gates open and at first all you hear is the slowly increasing sound of footsteps. A few sound to be walking, but as the volume increase, apparently so does the velocity. Before long the stampede reaches it's crescendo and you fear that your life may be in danger if you step out of your door as they pass. Voices cry out in fear, anger, and joy, and still the running continues. The dull roar gradually subsides. Only a few stragglers remain, but they rush onward as the rest had done before them. Finally the public address announcer silences the throngs; "Good Morning boys and girls. Welcome to another day of learning at Martin Luther King Jr. Elementary School."

I'm at this school two days a week and the running never stops. The children are ages 4-12. No matter where they are going or what the reason, they run as if their life depended upon it. They could be going to the bathroom, returning to class, or going to the principal (he's a prince who's your pal). They could be on their way to the nurse because they broke their leg and they'd be running. If they're not escorted by an adult, as soon as that classroom door opens these kids take off as if they are a super ball shot out of a cannon. They bounce off the walls and each other as they careen down the hallways and stairs. The next time one of them touches the bottom three steps on their way down the stairs it will be the first time. I've asked them why they run and leap on their way to everywhere and none of them has any idea why they do this. I guess the adult equivalent is how we always drive as if we're in a hurry, screaming inside our cars for others to get out of our way, even if we're going to get a root canal. I suppose that's why funeral processions get to run all the red lights. We're even in a hurry when we're dead.

Imagine if adults continued our childhood running everyday at our jobs and other places. At the supermarket we could race down the aisles crashing our carts like bumper cars trying to be the first to the checkout. In church we would jump over seats and into the aisle to be the first to be blessed. At the doctor as soon as that magical door opens to the exam rooms in back we'd all race and push through the door, perhaps knocking over a nurse on the way. Healthiest sick person wins! I'm not sure why, but I think this image would be particularly entertaining at the OB/GYN. As we wait for the copy machine in the office we'd push, jostle and budge each other as the weaker co-workers would shout, "Mr. Johnson! I was here first and Phil cut in line!" Imagine the fun. I don't think that youth is wasted on the young. I'd love to write more, but I've gotta run!

FREE HUMAN HAIR

Who could resist an offer like that? On my way from one work location to another I hit a fast food drive through and parked my car in a plaza so I could listen to the radio and eat my lunch. When what to my wondering eyes should appear but a sign advertising FREE HUMAN HAIR here. I stared across the parking lot at this sign, questions swirling through my mind. What business could possibly be giving away human hair as an enticement? Where do they get all the human hair that they must be giving away as part of this amazing offer? Are there clerks in the back busy shaving each others heads and bodies? Does it come in a bag, as a wig, or do you get the whole scalp? Can you pick the hair you get? Would I look better as a blonde? This was too good to be true. There had to be a catch.

FREE HUMAN HAIR. The sign was taunting me, teasing me, daring me to find out more. I finished my lunch and slipped my car into gear. I tentatively eased off the clutch, allowing my vehicle to roll forward of its own accord. I couldn't just drive away and go on with the rest of my life. For better or worse, I had to know. FREE HUMAN HAIR. As I drew closer, feeling as if some type of gravity were pulling me forward, I saw other small emblems in the shop window. Was this some sort of occult store offering FREE HUMAN HAIR for voodoo dolls or Satanic rituals? Was I really going there of my own volition, or was I perhaps the equivalent of a fly seduced into the jaws of a Venus Flytrap by the sweet smell. FREE HUMAN HAIR. Did the denizens within see me trying to sneak up on them in a 2000 pound vehicle. Of course they saw me. I was a fool to think they wouldn't. Am I going to draw this out any longer, or am I going to tell you what happened? Obviously, as evidenced by my writing here, I survived to tell the tale.

I pulled up to the curb in front of the little shop. How could they possibly be doing this in plain sight within 30 meters of a police station? FREE HUMAN HAIR. The sign and I regarded each other warily. I looked closer at the bottom of the sign. Beneath FREE HUMAN HAIR there was small print. "And there's the catch," I muttered to myself. Getting FREE HUMAN HAIR was not something just anyone would be willing to do. "Damn it," I thought. "This is going to be more costly than I ever imagined." It wouldn't cost me my eternal soul, but the cost would be steep. "With the purchase of a pair of women's shoes $60.00 or more." Needless to say, they're those little strappy numbers with the stiletto heels that make my calves look amazing. And yes, I do look better as a blonde.

May The Rain In Spain Fall Mainly on David Blaine

I know that most of you have heard the name. He's that jackass who keeps closing himself inside things and expecting us to watch. That's not a stuntman or a magician, that's a not very bright 4 year old. Why the international media continues to cover this guy is beyond me. Here are a list of recent "accomplishments": he spent 6 weeks in a box suspended above a street in London, he had himself frozen in a block of ice, he spent a week in a glass box in a hole in a New York City street, and he spent 35 hours on top of a pole in New York.

Right now he's busy spending a week in a big fish bowl. Big freakin' deal. Fish do that all the time and they have brains no bigger than a piece of rice. Fish also swim around in their own crap. Do you think David Blaine is going to do that? He's going to have a catheter to remove his urine, but where will his feces go? Probably into someone's entree at TGI Fridays. Of course he's not going to swim around in his own crap. He'll probably get out, take a crap, have a sandwich, and get a new oxygen tank. Now if we screwed a top on his fish bowl and dropped food in once a day I'd be impressed if he lasted the week. After a few days in the water can you imagine the George Costanza-like shrinkage he's going to have? He'll be lucky if he has more than a mushroom cap visible down there for the next six months. No thank you. I'll keep my equipment on the outside of my body where it belongs. Then, on Monday, ABC is going to televise him trying to hold his breath for 9 minutes. Again, big freakin' deal! I remember in study hall in the 7th grade my friend and I would always take turns seeing who could hold our breath the longest. No one put a camera on us. In fact, it may be that oxygen deprivation to my brain that is responsible for some of the inane ideas that you read here.

Props to David Blaine for making a living doing stupid things, but why does the media cover this nonsense? He's basically a circus freak. What's next for him? Trying to see how many jelly beans he can stuff up his nose? I think we as a society need to stop reinforcing this idiots behavior. Let's all agree, the next time this moron closes himself inside a giant jello mold in the middle of Times Square we'll just throw a blanket over him and walk away. As Ducky said to Andi in Pretty in Pink, "What kind of name is Blaine anyway? It sounds like a major appliance."

I'm Almost Famous!

Here is the exact cut and pasted transcript of an e-mail with the subject, "Psychic Phil" that I received yesterday:

05-02-06 3:34 So on my lunch break my wife tells me someone found a
fingertip in some food at TGI Friday's which had apparently been cut
off by one of the cooks and it was his fingertip - and it apparently just
happened.
So in my quest to find out if this was true or at least in the news the
only thing close I could pull up was your little
blog in which you joke about a fingertip being found in TGI Friday's
food.
So have you heard anything true about this and if so how do you feel
about posting about it a year ago?

How cool is that? This guy wasn't a blogger. He was just a guy who googled the subject. If one person came up with my blog when searching for info on the TGI Fridays story, then others must have too. This is may be my big break for fame and fortune. I'll be known as the TGI Fridays psychic. Restaurants the world over will come to me asking for me to see into the future of their restaurant so that they can prevent future catastrophes.

Bonus Phil Nonsense!

I want to ask a favor of all my blogging friends. First, I want you to go to my archives on the left sidebar, click on the May 2005 link, scroll down and read the Friday May 6th post titled "More Finger Food." Second, after you read that, cut and paste this link from today's CNN.com into your browser:

http://www.cnn.com/2006/US/05/01/restaurant.finger.ap/index.html

After you read that can you doubt my psychic powers? Then after you've read those two things, please go back and read my Oh Canada post below this one. I just put it up this morning and I don't want anyone to miss it.

Oh Canada!

I post a brief essay on the narcissism of blogging and I'm overwhelmed by comments from Canadians. Apparently Canada is the most narcissistic country on Earth. To me they have always seemed to be a quiet and unassuming country. Our "neighbor to the North" is what we Americans call them when we want to be politically correct, or if we want to run a pipeline all the way through your country from top to bottom. Canada is a country not known for it's participation in military conflicts or for political turmoil. I mean really, it's hard to go to war with a bunch of Dudley Do Right clones riding in on horseback in bright, red uniforms. If that doesn't say "target practice" to an enemy I don't know what does. Politics? It strikes me that Canada may be a very lazy country when it comes to politics. Canada was once owned by England. They're not anymore, but guess who's queen is still on their money? Did the government just say, "Ah, screw it. If we change the money it will just confuse people." The province of Quebec, the province that speaks French, is always making noise about seceding to become their own country. Have they ever seceded? No. Has the national government of Canada insisted they stop whining and start speaking English already? No. You know how we'd handle it in the States? Quebec would be given an ultimatum. If you secede we will go to war and make you get back into line. If you don't secede, you'd better start speaking English or we go to war to make you speak English. Then again, I don't think the Quebec residents are going to be too fearful of Dudley Do-Right.

Ok, I realize that this post will likely spark hundreds of comments from my Canadian blogging friends, giving me history lessons on Canada, extolling the virtues of the great white north, and also ripping me a new one. All of that will be deserved of course, but I hope none of you takes any real offense. I'm just teasing, and I only tease the ones I love. The real irony is that my high school song was done to the tune of your national anthem, Oh Canada, a fact I didn't know until long after high school. Don't be too harsh on me, I live close enough that I could be in your country in just and hour and 15 minutes. You don't want that to happen do you?