Tag: humor (page 1 of 55)

Animal videos for a summer Sunday

Dear Readers,

This week it’s all about animals.

A farmer plays a tune for his animals.  Do they react with delight or derision?  You be the judge.

A group of devoted animal lovers rescues the unloved, the neglected, the forgotten cats and dogs who roam our streets.  This rescue brought a tear to our eyes.  We hope this little guy has been adopted by the time you read this.

Why did the owl say, “Tweet, tweet”? Because she didn’t give a hoot!  Funny, right?  (okay, maybe not so funny) Learn more about these interesting birds here, like how they want to rip your face off and eat your eyeballs.  Honestly, we’re not kidding about this.

Enjoy your Sunday; we hope you’ll use it wisely by singing to your pets, adopting a stray or protecting your face from dastardly owls.
Karen & Wendy

Our holiday in Great Britain

Dear Karen,

Our holiday is over now, and all there is to do now, is look back and remember every laugh, every meal, every soft bed and every wrong turn we made in the past week.

Holidays have a way of turning serious, driven adults into children again, don’t they?  We charge through most of the year with our eye on the ball and our nose to the grindstone; having a vacation gives us respite from being grown-ups, even if just for a few days. Continue reading

We come over all teary-eyed

Dear Readers,

Happy Birthday, little George!  We get a little misty and teary-eyed, looking back at his first royal year:

Who doesn’t love a good wedding?  Especially when the groom is the one making all the decisions, including choosing the venue, the decor and, most important for brides, the dress.  There’s actually a show about this, called Don’t Tell the Bride.  To see an earlier version of this show, we offer you this snippet from Stuart times:

We’re sure those of you of Scottish descent will be crying tears of a different sort when watching this.  Bob Hope died 11 years ago; he killed the Highland Fling many years before that.

Wiping tears from our eyes, we remain,

Karen & Wendy

My first job

Dear Karen,

I never went to university.  Looking back, I wish I had, but at the time, joining the work force at the ripe age of 17 seemed like a great opportunity.  Within 2 weeks of graduation,  my first job was working as a messenger for a stock brokerage in the heart of the city.

I was surrounded by adults doing adult things.  My job was to deliver and pick up share certificates from brokerage houses around Vancouver.  This meant a lot of walking and a great sense of direction.  Knowing how to plot my day, hitting the right offices at the right time, was crucial.  We had no mobile phones back then, so once I was out on the street, my bosses would just have to trust I wasn’t sitting drunk in a bar using cheques to light my cigarettes.

You want me to wear that?  Okay.

Messengers had a strict dress code back then.  I had to wear high heels, a skirt or dress, and suitable make-up.  I was representing the company when I was out and about, and heaven forfend I should look shabby or common!  My feet ached at the end of each day, but wow, did my calves ever look good.  I was probably outside 4 hours per day back then.  It sounds like a crappy job, but honestly, I loved it.  I got to know the women behind the big banks and trust companies, we’d chat and share a joke or a bit of gossip while waiting for my delivery, maybe a cup of tea to tide me over in the winter, and then off I’d go to the next office, to do it all over again.

Best of all, I was finally earning a pay-cheque.

I was thrown into a world I knew absolutely nothing about.  Ask Lars about my accounting abilities and he’d probably raise a very wry, sarcastic eyebrow at you.  I really should never be trusted in a company where figures and numbers are discussed, and yet, there I was, at the heart of the finance district and learning every day.

 Demonstrating my prowess

Early on, I was asked  to make a pot of coffee for a meeting in the boardroom.   I did everything right:  water in, coffee measured, turn on the switch, and surely the rest would take care of itself.  I walked away, very pleased with myself.  Unfortunately, I’d forgotten to put the empty coffee pot under the basket, with the inevitable result.

I learned from that mistake.

My boss, Janice, asked  if I knew how to type.  Oh yes, I assured my boss, I’m a typing fiend.  60 wpm.  You can count on me! She showed me the IBM Selectric I’d be using and sat me down to type out a few simple sentences.

This was not the manual Olivetti I’d been taught to use in typing class.  I looked at the machine in puzzlement, not even sure how to put the paper in.

 

English: IBM Selectric II typewriter (dual Lat...

My nemesis.  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Janice sighed, “You need to turn it on first, Wendy”.  Oh.  Okay, good idea.  Where was the frigging button, though?  “On the side, Wendy.  Are you sure you know how to type?” Oh yes, of course I do!  Once I turn this stupid thing on, I shall impress you with my dexterity and skill, just you wait!

Of course, that didn’t happen.  As soon as I pressed the first ‘t’, thumping down for extra emphasis, as I’d been taught in my Grade Nine Typing class, the stupid IBM Selectric skittered out at least 20 ‘t’s in a row.  I flinched, shocked at the machine’s touchiness and speed.

 Finally, my star sign comes in handy

I’m sure Janice, wonderful Janice who was so patient with me, was wondering just why on earth she’d hired me.  Well, duh, we both knew why I was hired:  during my job interview, we discovered we were fellow Sagitarrians.   There was no way she couldn’t hire me, not knowing valuable information like that.

Zodiac sign of SAGITTARIUS in a 9th century ma...

This, plus some magical fairy dust, and I’d say you’re perfect for the job!   (Photo credit: e-codices)

I came through my baptism by fire and stayed with the company for 2 years.  I’d risen through the ranks, until I reached the lofty position of Assistant Manager of  Accounting, which sounds pretty swish, right?  I wasn’t even 20, and I was flying high.  Let me bring us all back to the ground by reminding you that there were only 3 of us in the accounting cage:  the accounts manager, me and the messenger who replaced me.

Anyway, I did enjoy my time there.  Whenever a trader scored a big deal, he’d bring champagne in for us.  They’d take us out for lunch to celebrate.  We’d host big parties in big hotels for big clients with big bank accounts. We’d shut down early on Fridays and play Backgammon while drinking champagne and smoking non-stop.

The traders in our office were male, in their 30s and 40s, and both intimidating and cool.

Introducing a cast of…two

We were a small office of 9.  Everyone was a character but two of them stand out, all these years later.

Bob was our leader:  calm, avuncular, funny, we tripped over ourselves to please him.  He was a genuinely nice man, and a very talented businessman as well.

Trevor, on the other hand, was our Resident Psycho, hopped up on testosterone and adrenaline.  He thought nothing of snooping through our desks to find our stash of chocolate bars.  Apparently it was his god-given right.  If we confronted him, a sudden chill would descend on the office until he decided to forgive and forget.  Numerous women would be escorted into the back room for meetings at lunch.  I must have been the only one who didn’t realize they were actually poorly disguised bonking sessions.  The women would exit with ruffled hair and dazed expressions; Trevor would leave with a sweep of his hair and a self-satisfied smirk on his face.  Happily married, happily cheating, Trev was quite the Lothario.

For reasons that made sense at the time, I moved to another job, which led to a position at a Danish  company and the man whom I ended up marrying.    Boring job, but wow, what a social life!

 

alt="IMAGE-wendy-birthday-party"

And this is how I ended up: the shortest in a family of 5 wonderful people.

Shortly after moving in together, we moved to LA, so that was the end of my Canadian work career.

I was young, no job talents to speak of, and no university degree to back me up.  It should have been a scary time, but actually, it was shocking, unadulterated fun.

I don’t miss it, but I  look back on those 2 years with great fondness.

I watched, listened and learned about people, late hours, hard work, and most of all?   How to make a proper pot of coffee.

Come over and I’ll pour you a cup.

Love,
Wendy

 

 

 

Facebook betrayal and…ducks

Dear Karen,

I was all set to discuss betrayal on Facebook today but I decided not to.

Let me explain why:

  • I’m not a masochist
  • I don’t have time to dwell on people who childishly decide to  block me
  • Life isn’t a popularity contest
  • I can see ducks through my window
  • I guess they’re more important than hurt feelings and unanswered questions.   So I threw away my original post (Gone!  In the bin! So long, sucker!) and started to do some duck research

I’m so glad I did.

From Cuckoos to Ducks?  Huh?

You know I’m not a bird person, or as they’re called in professional circles, a Birdologist.   I used to think, based on the evidence that Donald Duck always flew in airplanes, that ducks don’t fly.

That’s how much I know about ducks.

alt="IMAGE-duck-balcony"

“Yes Wendy, I climbed up here, thanks to my portable ladder. I never travel without it”

 

So when I saw them across the way, I wasn’t sure if I was looking at girls, boys, or one of each.  All I knew was that they’d show up every morning around 6, stand on the railing looking towards my office window, quack a lot, and about 3 hours later, they’d fly away.  Lyra and Blue loved having them around.  So did I.  They were kind of fun.

But I wanted to know why they decided to come to a landlocked block in the centre of London. Why not fly the extra 3 minutes and land in the pond in Hyde Park?  Dumb ducks.

So, using something called Google (have you heard of it?  It’s kind of amazing), I tried to search for information.  I tried “Strange duck habits”, “Ducks landing on balcony”, and “Why am I so unpopular? Please help!” but came up with nothing that solved my burning question.

Imagine my shock and blushing horror when at last I Googled “Unusual duck behaviour”, and up came  this site addressing the much lauded topic of Homosexual Duck Necrophilia.

Well.  Tie my beak and call me speechless.

Of course I had to read on.

Don’t worry, it’s gruesome but it’s also incredibly fascinating.

Fascinating?  More like terrifying

Male ducks engage in something charmingly called “rape flights”.  These two males were going at it feather and tong  when, according to the scientist who was witness to the whole sordid affair (oh Wendy, you’re so judgmental), they crashed into his window and fell, plop!, to the ground, just outside his office.

alt=IMAGE-ducks"

We see a sitting duck, whereas he sees an opportunity.

He went out to see what was up, so to speak.  He found Dead Duck  and Lucky Duck, as I now call them.  Lucky was furiously pecking Dead Duck’s head.  Like, a lot.  As in, more than you’d think necessary or prudent in a situation like that.

Once he completed that little task, Lucky jumped Dead’s bones, and there’s no delicate way of putting it, raped him.  For 75 minutes.

Isn’t nature amazing?

What Kees Moeliker had witnessed was unique.  10% of ducks are gay, apparently, so they’re not that rare.  And sometimes the males do have a go at dead females.  But the combination of these two behaviours turned something sort of boringly average,  into the realm of “Holy shit, did I really see that?” and “Where’s my camera?”.

The only thing that could improve this story is if the Lucky were also a vampire duck.  That would be awesome.

Moeliker won the IgNobel Prize for this one, and I say Bravo to this.   Apparently, these ducks have  changed his life.

I love this story more and more.

But this is what I really take away from this article:  ducks have penises?  Wow. How did I not know that.  I thought they laid eggs and then kind of sat on them for a while.

I really wish I’d paid more attention in school.

The silver lining of this duck story is, I’m insanely happy that the person who has so rudely blocked me can’t read about my duck news.  And whenever I think of her,  I now imagine those ducks, which just makes me laugh.

And that’s good.  The world needs to laugh more, I always say.  Who needs bitterness and hard feelings when there’s nature to explore and necrophiliac gay ducks to spy on?

Right?

Love,
Wendy

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