St. Evan

It has been awhile since I have committed myself to writing an entry onto this blog. Sometimes we have a situation where life just gets in the way and time marches on while you are sitting on the sidelines.

I suppose I could come up with a host of excuses as to why I have neglected to write. After all, the experience is enjoyable, the feedback so far has been pretty good, plus it keeps me creatively busy, which is a good thing. As the saying goes, “idol hands are the devil’s play tools.”

Ironically, in my very first posting earlier in the summer I gave my reasons for starting this blog and I also mentioned the inspirational friend who kept pushing me to start it.

His name is Evan Berle and in addition to being my computer guru and regular radio show guest he’s a close friend and confident as we often debated each other on the various aspects of our lives and the issues of the world.

Since Evan was a computer whiz and a self described geek I often called him St. Evan, the patron saint of all things computers. I even named an ftp directory that I use every day “St. Evan.” Almost everything I know about modern personal computers I learned from him. He was also the webmaster who created the blueprint that became my website.

Evan and I would talk on the phone several times a week. On Saturdays we would have an expanded conversation, sometimes talking well beyond an hour. Talking to Evan was one of the joys that I looked forward to regularly.

While his computer experience was invaluable, and for almost 20 years it was something that I grew to depend on greatly, it’s his personality, his friendship and those long discussions that I grew to depend on even more. It’s that latter aspect of his friendship that I will miss the most. That’s because two weeks ago, Evan Berle passed away at the extremely young age of 51.

Evan was taken from us due to lung cancer. From diagnosis to death the time was quick – about five months. Ironically, Evan, who was a long-time smoker, had given up the habit almost a year ago. He was proud of himself for the change he had made and how much better his quality of life would be without the dreaded death sticks. I marvelled at how he managed to kick the habit without too much muss or fuss. If only he could have done it sooner.

I mentioned that Evan was a frequent guest on our radio show. That’s how we met. I was looking for someone to be a regular contributor to the show to discuss computers and take questions from our listening audience. Evan came highly recommended.

Over the years I have had the chance to talk to literally thousands of guests on the air, yet I can count on one hand the ones who have become personal lifelong friends. Evan was at the top of that very short list.

I guess it started with his easy going manner and the simple things in life that he got pleasure out of. Leading the list of pride and pleasure for Evan were three names; David, Joey and Mitch – his sons. All three are fine young men who, needless to say, have lost a great deal – but I can see in them the kindness and humanity that was Evan.

I mentioned that we could spend hours talking on the phone. There was always one thing that could cut those conversations short – a visit or call from one of his sons. Evan was amazingly proud of how his boys turned out and he should be. He would gush about them and never hide expressing his love for them – something that you don’t often hear men do.

The other love of his life was Anna; the woman he found and grew to love after the break-up of his marriage. He would often bring up how much Anna meant to him – again a trait that most guys don’t express to other guys in casual conversation.

A couple of Saturdays have now gone by and it is finally sinking in that I will never talk to Evan again. I won’t hear his words of wisdom. I won’t be able to take advantage of his sage advice. And don’t get me started on the invaluable tech support that has ceased to exist.

One of the things Evan and I would often debate is the topic of religion, especially as to how it has played itself out in the never ending Middle East conflict. Though as an adult I am not a regular church goer, I am a strong believer of my Christian faith and the upbringing that I had within the church. Evan, who was raised as a Jew, was not religious at all but rather, he was a non-believer – an interesting fact since his two youngest sons are extremely religious, observing a completely Kosher lifestyle.

Perhaps it is the lack of belief that I got a kick out of teasing him about, even naming an ftp directory after him with a religious moniker. Evan will truly be missed by all those who love him and sadly, I can only think of him now as St. Evan.

That’s the Stuph – the way I see it.

Sometimes You Feel Like A Nut . . .

In the grand scheme of things on the average, everyone has one testicle. Globally that’s just a mathematical fact. In practice, however, that average only works out because men have two and women don’t have any, but every once in awhile someone comes along who wants to change that equation.

That person this time around is 24-year-old British lass Amanda Monti. She has just been sentenced to jail by the Liverpool Crown Court for a crime that has all men who read this crossing their legs.

Amanda received a two and a half year sentence for ripping off her ex-lover’s testicle with her bare hands! Apparently, she flew into a rage when 37-year-old Geoffrey Jones rejected her advances at the end of a drunken house party (and there you have it – yes, alcohol was involved).

As the story goes, the two attended the party back in May 2004, a drunken argument ensued and an outraged Amanda grabbed at Geoffrey’s face and the two began to struggle.

Consequently, Geoffrey threw petite Amanda out of the house but she managed to lure Geoffrey outside after she smashed a window. The two wrestled again, and Amanda was knocked down.

While on the ground, she reached up and pulled Geoffrey’s shorts down, leaving him in his underpants. Even though Geoffrey was already thoroughly embarrassed it wasn't enough for Amanda, who was still fuming. She then grabbed at his groin area and pulled so hard that his underpants came off.

Geoffrey was completely naked and in excruciating pain. He hobbled back into the house and into the kitchen to try and avoid further confrontation with Amanda.

A friend of Geoffrey who witnessed the event approached him, with testicle in hand and, with what has to be the quote of the century said . . . "That's yours."

To Geoffrey’s utter shock, he looked down into his friend's hand and saw his testicle in it, which Amanda had ripped completely off during the struggle. She had tried to swallow it, but apparently testicle is an acquired taste so Amanda choked and spat it out.

In a statement read to the court, Geoffrey said, "Amanda attacked me in an unprovoked manner and the attack has ruined my life." He added, "I cannot begin to describe the pain I’ve suffered."

Amanda pleaded guilty to wounding. Doctors were unable to re-attach one of the twins to Jim, and the court heard that Geoffrey, a bodybuilder, is so embarrassed by what happened he is planning to move away.

In a letter to the court, Amanda said she was sorry for what she had done. She added: "I am in no way a violent person.” Is there any guy reading this who doesn’t think that having a nut sack detached by a nut case's bare hands before she tries to swallow it is violent? Didn’t we used to burn people at the stake for less?

Amanda’s letter goes on to say, “I have challenged myself to explain what has happened but still I just cannot remember. This has caused much anguish to me and will do so for the rest of my life."

Amanda, are you sure the anguish you feel is more than Geoff’s? Perhaps it was your desire to have you on his mind forever – and he will. He’ll think of you anytime he may have sex in the future, if he can. He’ll think of you whenever he pees. He’ll think of you on each occasion that he has jock itch. As every guy knows, down there is our little home away from home and thanks to Amanda, Geoffrey now has empty nest syndrome.

That’s the Stuph – the way I see it.

Batboy & Other Children

This post deals with stories involving children and also the demise of the granddaddy of all tabloids. World Weekly News will cease to publish very soon after 28 years of gleefully chronicling the exploits of alien babies, animal-human hybrids and dead celebrities. It is a publication that is part of the empire that includes the National Enquirer and other known supermarket tabloids. There was a time when the outlandish, fabricated stories, that for some reason certain parts of the population were willing to believe, was fashionable and profitable. By the way the folks that actually believed these stories are the same ones who think wrestling is real and the moon landings were fake.

But the growing population of the web and the easy access to various publications around the world online have brought on the demise of such entities that a few years ago seemed to be so strong. In fact World Weekly News, which billed itself as "The World's Only Reliable Newspaper," will continue to live on but only in an online version. Trees will no longer need to die in order for people to get their fix of “Bat Boy.” (You all remember “Bat Boy” the half-bat, half-human child found in a cave, with a face that only a mother could love – and a blind mother at that).

Besides the proliferation of the web one of the other reasons this publication had a shorter shelf life is, ironically, truth is stranger than fiction. The very fact that I have been doing the “Stuph File” for years on the radio and now here online proves this. While we may not always have something as exciting as “Bat Boy” to deal with there have been a slew of stories that some might find hard to believe.

Well in honour of “Bat Boy” we have a couple of stories dealing with kids, but admittedly today they are of the milder variety. First up, the picture of “Bat Boy” might frighten some because of his somewhat grotesque smile. One’s smile is very important, even at an early age and a smile is of course enhanced by one’s teeth so it is important to take care of them even very early on. Do you remember your first dental appointment? How old were you – perhaps three or four?

Well how is this for a freak of nature – little Megan Andrews amazed doctors and her family by being born with teeth! Although Megan is only two weeks old, she has already had two dental appointments. No one noticed until about a half hour after Megan was born that she had chompers. Her mom, 20-year-old Claire Slimming of Brighton, England, who may want to reconsider the whole breast feeding thing, used a midwife to aid in the delivery. The midwife did the usual after-birth inventory; ten fingers – check; ten toes – check. She was then astonished when she put a finger inside her mouth and counted seven teeth. Doctors gently took out four of the teeth because they were falling out anyway and might have choked Megan. The others are pretty secure though so they plan to leave those in for now. No word yet on how soon she might be getting braces.

The other story dealing with children is about the noise they make. I must be one of those rare folk who are not really bothered by the sound of other people’s crying children or a toddler in the grasp of the terrible twos having a supermarket or airline tantrum. Frankly, I’m more concerned about the child that appears to be too quiet. Those are the ones you have to watch closely.

As irony would have it, I am actually writing this on a laptop while waiting for a doctor’s appointment (don’t worry, I’ll live) surrounded by a plethora of maladies and yes, the omnipresent vocalization of a choir of ankle-biters. I revel at the look of agony of some of my fellow citizens who are clearly unimpressed. I, on the other hand, embrace the circle of life – the extremely young struggling to be heard and those at the other end of the grumpy spectrum who are just here to perhaps get the doctor to stamp their final boarding pass.

Speaking of boarding pass, the story deals with a woman who said a flight attendant kicked her and her son off a plane last month because the toddler kept saying "bye-bye plane" to another jet. Kate Penland of Buford, Georgia, was flying from Houston to Oklahoma City on June 16th on a Continental ExpressJet flight that was 11 hours late when her one-and-a-half year old son Garron started saying goodbye to another plane he saw as it taxied on the runway. A flight attendant, who had been giving safety instructions to passengers said, "It's not funny anymore. You need to shut your baby up." The flight attendant then told her, "It's called baby Benadryl," and made a drinking motion.

Well, let’s stop to look at the facts here. Penland’s flight was 11 hours late! We’re all lucky that the only thing the kid was saying was "bye-bye plane." Other passengers on the flight said the kid wasn’t talking any louder than the adult passengers. What really seemed to annoy our air hostess was nobody was listening to her vital speech on safety regulations. (Nobody listens to those announcements. Sadly, we only wish we could remember them when the jet is barrel-rolling us toward the ground!)

Here’s the most bizarre part of the story. Penland rightly said that she wouldn't drug her child. Besides, she explained that Garron would likely fall asleep soon. The toddler wasn't crying or throwing a fit. But the flight attendant was. She had the plane turn around and return to the gate and Penland and her son were ordered to leave. Penland, and for that matter many of the other passengers were alarmed at the turn of events.

According to ExpressJet, the flight crew has the authority to remove passengers who interfere with the safe operation of a flight. Gee, an 18-month-old was simply saying "bye-bye plane.” He didn’t have explosives in his shoes. He didn’t order the flight to Havana. He didn’t sing the Barney song. Those are all good reasons for ejection. He didn’t throw a tantrum or have a meltdown. He was only offering salutations to another flight.

Penland has a difficult time believing she or her son caused that type of problem. Airline officials said they were investigating the matter, and Penland want answers. I think I already have the answer. It’s time for the flight attendant to say "bye-bye plane.”

The truth is stranger than fiction. When I hear stories like this I tend to believe more and more in “Bat Boy.”

That’s the Stuph – the way I see it.

Feline Serial Killer

After sharing my warnings with you in a previous post concerning the evil plot that cats worldwide have against mankind, I quite frankly wasn’t going to write about their plans for world domination so soon. After all, one has to lay low because those who are onto them are of course in danger themselves. However a recent story in the news has alarmed me into taking action once again. Let me tell you about a heinous creature named Oscar – a soldier in their cause who acts like a cat in the wild, preying on the weakest of our herd.

Oscar the cat lives in Providence, Rhode Island and according to a recent essay in the prestigious New England Journal of Medicine, he seems to have an uncanny knack for predicting when nursing home patients are going to die, by curling up next to them during their final hours. His accuracy, observed in 25 cases, has led the staff to call family members once he has chosen someone. It usually means they have less than four hours to live. It’s as if he were a game show host asking them to come on down to make their final bid.

It was Dr. David Dosa, a geriatrician and assistant professor of medicine at Brown University, who wrote the article in question. As he was quoted as saying, “He (Oscar) doesn't make too many mistakes. He seems to understand when patients are about to die. Many family members take some solace from it. They appreciate the companionship that the cat provides for their dying loved one." I, of course, have another theory. Oscar has been snuffing the old folks out!

The two-year-old feline was adopted as a kitten and grew up in a dementia unit at the Steere House Nursing and Rehabilitation Center, one of those many facilities that I like to refer to as “God’s waiting room” (have you ever visited the solarium in one of these establishments? It’s like life at the back of the fridge). This place treats people with Alzheimer's, Parkinson's disease and other illnesses – the slowest gazelles among us. After about six months, the staff noticed Oscar would make his own rounds, just like the doctors and nurses. He'd sniff and observe patients, then sit beside people who would wind up dying in a few hours. Dosa said Oscar seems to take his work seriously and is generally aloof. "This is not a cat that's friendly to people," he said. Gee, a cat that’s aloof. Stop the presses!

Oscar is better at predicting death than the people who work there, said Dr. Joan Teno of Brown University, who treats patients at the nursing home and is an expert on care for the terminally ill. (Is she really an expert? She just said that a cat is better at the job than she is!)

Teno was convinced of Oscar's talent when he made his 13th correct call. While observing one patient, Teno said she noticed the woman wasn't eating, was breathing with difficulty and her legs had a bluish tinge, signs that often mean death is near. Oscar wouldn't stay inside the room though, so Teno thought his streak was broken. Instead, it turned out the doctor's prediction was roughly 10 hours too early. Sure enough, during the patient's final two hours, nurses told Teno that Oscar joined the woman at her bedside.

Just how closely is the staff watching Oscar? How do we know if he’s not unplugging vital equipment, increasing morphine drips or using the time honoured form of attempted homicide that many cats use – planting themselves on the faces of unsuspecting sleeping victims and smothering them like a furry pillow of death? Does anybody even check to find out if these victims might have been allergic to cats?

Has anyone thought of the horrific final moments of these poor souls? They are left at the mercy of a calculating killer who has carte blanche, choosing his victims and dispatching of them in the same heartless way that Dick Cheney eliminates hunting buddies.

Doctors say most of the people who get a visit from the sweet-faced, grey and white cat are so ill they probably don't know he's there, so patients aren't aware he's a harbinger of death. Most families are grateful for the advanced warning, although one wanted Oscar out of the room while a family member died. When Oscar is put outside, he paces and meows his displeasure (of course, he can’t add to his personal morbid body count! He’s not there for his countdown to the last breath).

No one is certain if Oscar's behaviour is scientifically significant or points to a cause. Teno wonders if the cat notices telltale scents or reads something into the behaviour of the nurses who raised him. Nicholas Dodman, who directs an animal behavioural clinic at the Tufts University Cummings School of Veterinary Medicine and has read Dosa's article, said the only way to know is to carefully document how Oscar divides his time between the living and dying. If Oscar really is a furry grim reaper, it's also possible his behaviour could be driven by self-centred pleasures like a heated blanket placed on a dying person, Dodman said.

Nursing home staffers aren't concerned with explaining Oscar, so long as he gives families a better chance at saying goodbye to the dying. Oscar recently received a wall plaque publicly commending his "compassionate hospice care."

Just think how satisfied Oscar must feel. He continues to increase his body count and the unsuspecting humans are honouring him for it. Death, where is thy sting? Apparently it comes in the form of a homicidal hairball.

That’s the Stuph – the way I see it.

(Also see: Cats Are Evil! & More Proof Of The Evil Of Felines)

Hilda

As I continue my duties with the Just For Laughs festival, I am reminded that Monday night, July 16th, was the 5th anniversary of the death of my mother. It was during the festival in 2002 that she passed away, just one month shy of her 86th birthday.

I’ve always been someone who has a strong sense of duty and, as I’ve mentioned earlier, I also believe strongly in the power of humour, so it was not uncharacteristic of me to have gone to work at a comedy festival on the night of my mother’s passing.

When it is fine to joke and what is fine to joke about are boundary decisions that each individual has to make for themselves. For me personally, there are few boundaries. I can laugh at just about anything and frankly, at just about any time.

Years before my mother died we had a jolly old time going in for a pre-arrange funeral for her. Most people find this to be a morbid topic, but I believe in the practicality of it and hey, why not have a laugh or two about it in the process? As for when I assume room temperature, my own funeral is already planned and paid for – it’s just a matter of chiselling in the right dates on the stone.

We already had the plot since my maternal grandmother was interred there back in 1983. My grandmother was a wonderful woman, who was afraid of thunder and lightening. Imagine the irony that we buried her on a mountain next to a television and radio transmission tower.

Anyway, Mother was instrumental in the planning of her own going away party and the advantages of doing things in advance is you know exactly what you’re getting, the cost will never escalate and most importantly, when the time comes and family members are dealing with grief, the nuts and bolts of planning have all been taken care of – no muss, no fuss. It puts the “fun” back in funeral!

Back in 2002 Mother was not too well (gee, I guess that’s an understatement, given the eventual outcome) but it was still a bit of a surprise when the end did come. My mother suffered from diabetes for the last 30 years or so of her life and her death was a result of complications due to the illness.

I still remember getting the call from the hospital that she had just passed away. It was very early in the morning and it’s always interesting that one seems to have a sixth sense about what awaits at the other end of a ringing phone. I got the news then made the one phone call I had to make for arrangements (when you have a pre-arrange funeral it’s one simple phone call to put everything in motion, from body retrieval and preparation to flower arrangements and death notices. It’s much more difficult to order Chinese food).

I then called family members to inform them and then prepared for my duties that night to go to Just For Laughs. Not wanting to be a downer at a comedy festival I told no one except Bruce Hills, the head of the festival, giving him instructions not to pass the information on. I also took my best friend, Mario Leblanc, to work with me, shadowing me just in case I had an emotional relapse of any kind (you know, like blubbering uncontrollably while trying to introduce a comic onstage – wouldn’t that be fun!)

Actually, I did tell one other person, comic Adam Ferrara. Each year the festival is a chance to renew friendships with those who regularly trek to our city for the event, sort of like going to comedy camp. You develop a certain rapport with people when they arrive and in the case of Adam, he would always try to crack me up whenever I had to make a backstage announcement or do anything else that my duties required. I was finally going to get payback at the expense of my mother.

Just seconds before Adam was to hit the stage I gently whispered in his ear, “my Mother just died a couple of hours ago, try and make me laugh now, yah bastard! Have a nice set!” Then I stood in the wings where he could see me from the corner of his eye and stared at him. To his credit he did make me laugh, as I knew he would. It was a very therapeutic evening. (By the way, the next night, comic Joey Elias came up to me to whisper condolences in my ear. He said, “I’m sorry, is it true that your mother died?” I replied, “Yes, she did seven minutes without getting a single laugh.” The initial stunned look on his face before he burst out laughing was priceless).

I made the trip Monday afternoon with one of my sisters to visit with Mom, up on the hill where she rests with her mother and my father, the man she was married to for over six decades. I make the pilgrimage on occasion, visiting on her birthday, the anniversary of her death and also whenever the need arises to talk to her about some issue in my life or to share news. It’s amazing how much wisdom can be imparted and how much more agreeable loved ones can be once they’ve passed on. Even now, she still never lets me down.

I guess at this point I should tell you a bit about my mother. Hilda Ilene Holder was a strong-willed woman who raised five children with love and lots of discipline. She was religious with a well developed sense of right and wrong and she was an ambidextrous disciplinarian. That means you never knew which hand was coming when a spanking was in your vicinity.

Unfortunately, I only got to know my mother later in life, since I was a late baby. She had already spent an entire lifetime raising four daughters by herself in Barbados while my father was here in Canada trying to scrape up enough money to support them, support himself and put a little away to get his family back together. That struggle took eleven years and during that time my parents didn’t see each other at all.

Many people of my parents’ generation endured similar sacrifice, but very few of their contemporaries stuck it out faithfully and remained a nuclear family with all the children sharing the same parents. Families drifted apart due to the distance and time, but that wasn’t the case with my Mother’s family. She just wasn’t going to let that happen – as I said, she was very strong willed.

It takes a special kind of person to endure that kind of hardship – as I mentioned, a person with a strong sense of right and wrong. That’s why I bring up the disciplinarian part of her. In raising four kids, all close in age together, she had seen it all and done it all, so by the time I came around, there was no way I was gettin’ away with nothin’ (and Mom would have cringed at the double negative in that last sentence).

Now, I don’t want to give the impression that she was always hitting me. No, that was far from the case. Sometimes all it took was a look. All of the kids and grandkids in the family knew the look, especially if you did something in public. We were all very well behaved children in public – there was no doubt about it.

I think back to one of the first times when I got the look. It was in church on one of the special occasions when the Sunday School classes would be part of the regular congregation, such as holidays.

I was sitting next to Mom, fidgeting as only a four-year-old can, because you know how exciting church can be for a four-year-old. We had just finished a hymn and sat down, which is when I chose to break the silence by asking Mom a question. As you know, children in church are incapable of whispering. I asked her who Andy was. She ignored me. I asked her again. I got the look. Words need not have been said. That was when I learned there was a time and place for everything and this wasn’t it.

Oh, she did explain who Andy was after the service. She made sure I knew exactly who Andy was. She sat me down with a hymn book in hand and I found out that Andy was actually two words. "And he walks with me, and he talks with me and he tells me I am his own." It was the hymn In The Garden, which has since become one of my favourites.

As religious as she was I know my mother went to a better place, but she will never be forgotten. She left more than just a DNA stamp on the family members she left behind. She imparted her sense of honour, sense of duty, strong faith and a moral compass that allows us to carry on for her and in the right direction. We should all be so lucky to have that kind of legacy to leave behind.

That’s the Stuph – the way I see it.

Party Poopers

As many of our listeners to the radio show know, I take a major chunk of my summer holidays during the Just For Laughs Festival, the largest international comedy festival in the world, now enjoying its 25th year.

It’s a passion for me to be part of the festival as I always wanted to be a participant as opposed to just a consumer. I love comedy, I love comedians and I love being around them both in a professional and personal capacity. I enjoy the camaraderie of the backstage experience, the imparting of comedic tips to younger comics from the veterans and the annual feeling of being at some sort of comedy camp.

There are friends I have made in the almost two decades I’ve been working with Just For Laughs that I only see at this time of the year. It’s the renewal of old friendships and the making of new ones.

The city of Montreal is blessed with a plethora of festivals. It is a city known for them. While our summers might be short our festivals are in abundance and they are also year round.

There are too many to mention here, starting with Fête des Neiges in January and running throughout the calendar year. Some of the biggies are the Montreal International Jazz Festival, the International Fireworks Competition, the Montreal Grand Prix, Carifiesta, the Montreal International Reggae Festival, the Montreal World Film Festival and a myriad of others which would make a listing of them too lengthy.

Recently the city of Montreal floated an idea about the needed security at such events. Despite the fact that some of these fests bring in millions and millions of tourist dollars, plus free publicity and prestige to the city, the Mayor of Montreal has given thought to being stingy enough to bill organizers for the added police work – work that usually pertains to events such as outdoor concerts that are free to the audiences they draw, sometimes over a hundred thousand.

While I think the Mayor’s comments are some sort of trial balloon that won’t fly in the long run, it is an issue that has raised some attention within the media and that’s actually what I wanted to talk about in this post.

Nowadays it seems in fashion for radio stations, television news and newspapers to constantly poll their audiences about whatever issue floats by, often with some really mind-numbing questions. Recently the local CTV affiliate had a poll question about festivals for their audience to answer.


What I find so outrageous about some of these polls, regardless of what the question is, are the folks I like to call “the party poopers.”

You already know where I stand on the comedy festival, but I concede that probably the biggest festival this city has to offer is the Montreal International Jazz Festival. Here’s a news flash for you. I have absolutely no use for the jazz fest. It’s not something I would gravitate to, it’s not something that interests me and I have no desire to be part of tens of thousands of my fellow Montrealers rubbing up against each other rhythmically to see a live show on the street.

But I see the joy that it brings to those who love it, who almost treat it like a religion, who yearn for it each year like I yearn for the comedy fest. As a tax payer I see the economic benefits, the added pride to the city and the shear joy that it brings to those who enjoy it. As much as I don’t partake in it, I can’t imagine this city without it.

So who are these party poopers who would say that there are too many festivals in the city? I’m always amazed when I see a poll where to me the answer is obvious yet there is always a substantial number on the other side. If a news organization asked in a poll, should we tax oxygen, there would be at least ten to fifteen percent saying “yes, why should the air be free for everybody, what – are we in a communist state!?!”

We all know who these people are. We’ve known them since childhood. Their houses were where Frisbees vanished. When you played ball hockey, if the ball went into their yard Amnesty International was incapable of getting it out safely. These were the people who offered up only apples at Halloween (if you even bothered to go to their door). These were the people who weren’t referred to as “Mr.” or “Mrs.” but rather “Old Man Whatshisface” and “Old Bitty Jones.” When you met them you could never imagine them having fun. They’re the kind of folks who think the Amish are going to hell in a hand basket.

These are the people who vote against everything. The blinds to their homes are always drawn, the blinds to their hearts have never been opened and the metal blinders on their soul are rusted shut. (Here’s the second post in a row now where a personality description has reminded me of Dick Cheney).

They never wish anyone “Merry Christmas” – in fact they rally against it. When they come across service people who dare to say “have a nice day” they strafe them with laser beam eyes. They were put on this earth merely as a reminder to the rest of us as to how bland and miserable life can be.

If there was a human zoo that schools could take field trips to this species would be housed in the cage just down the corridor from the one with the crack whore and next to the Hollywood agent. In all cases teachers would advise the youngsters not to antagonize the creatures and for the love of God don’t make direct eye contact.

But party poopers do serve one vital purpose. They are there to make sure that no poll, no matter how simple or innocuous, can have a vote where everybody agreed. They also help the economy because without them, as a child you wouldn’t have had to buy another Frisbee.

That’s the Stuph - the way I see it.

Cats Are Evil!

Anyone who has listened to our radio show over a period of time knows how I feel about cats. They’re evil – little pieces of evil – plotting to overthrow mankind. I have worked long and hard trying to convince the general population of this but no one is listening. When the invasion starts and the felines all rise up against us you will remember my warning, but alas, it will be too late.

Seriously, you cat owners out there (and nobody really ever “owns” a cat), do you know what your so-called pet is doing when you’re not home? Perhaps you’re one of those people who leave their computer on when they go out. How do you know your cat isn’t sending out emails, mobilizing the forces, and taking further instructions from the Grand Poobah of cats? The signs are all there as to what the cats are doing – you’re just not paying attention. You’re more focused on the Taliban and Al-Qaeda, as if they were a match for the Tonkinese and Abyssinians.

I was reminded of this yet again last Thursday. On the radio program we had on a good friend of the show by the name of Ben Patrick Johnson. Before I get to the cat story, let me tell you a little bit about Ben.

Ben Patrick Johnson is a very gifted guy. He is a major voice over talent in the United States, plus he hosts a daily online show called Life On The Left Coast. He’s written several novels, his latest being his third entitled One Size Fits All. He lives in the Hollywood Hills, his next door neighbour is Paris Hilton and he’s a gadget freak (for the love of God, don’t ask him about his iPhone!) As if that weren’t enough he’s a fitness enthusiast with model good looks. If he weren’t such a freakin’ likeable guy you’d just want to hate him.

You’d think a guy like this would not fall prey to the nefarious spell of a little hair-ball producing, furniture scratching, lint inducing creature, but he has a cat named “Annie.” ANNIE! Like that sweet little orphan who doesn’t have eyeballs!

Well on the show Ben and I were having a civilized conversation when all of a sudden the sound of a cat could be heard in the background (one of the gadgets Ben has is the ability to use ISDN broadcast lines from his home – a job requirement – so you can hear a pin drop, or in this case a cat purr). The cat didn’t speak just once but twice!!!

Ben thought it was cute, but I really knew what was going on. CJAD is the number one English AM radio station in Montreal, reaching the Ottawa Valley and parts of three U.S. states, plus we can be heard across the country on Bell Expressvu satellite and around the world on the web. I’m sure Annie was quite aware of this and was taking the opportunity to give commands to felines everywhere at the expense of our powerful broadcast signal and like so many “owners” Ben was totally oblivious to this. CJAD was unwittingly duped into being a sort of feline al jazeera.

Now, I’m not a pet person at all. I guess this comes from my Caribbean background. Although I was born in Canada my entire immersion through my family and siblings, who were all born in the West Indies, is Caribbean and back in Barbados nobody had any pets. Sure they all had cats and dogs, but they served a purpose. Dogs guarded the house, cats killed the mice. They weren’t part of the family.

However, I know North American culture is different and people love their pets, but at least a dog will be loving, loyal and obedient. What has a cat ever done for you? Oh, they might let you think you’re in charge, but for the most part they will do what they want, they will disregard your existence and with their disagreeable temperament they will snarl at you just for looking at them the wrong way. They have almost the same personality traits as Dick Cheney and are probably plotting just as much.

I fear for my friend Ben who does not know that he, like so many who have cats, are merely hostages in their so-called pets' world. It’s like they’re suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.

But since these poor souls can’t or won’t watch out for themselves, it’s up to people like me to keep vigilant – to keep an eye out for what lies “apaw.” Like the Minutemen at the Mexican border watching for illegal aliens, I will be focused on the comings and goings of cats – because I am deeply worried for the safety of Ben Patrick Johnson and many others like him. I have to find a way to break the spell.

That’s the Stuph - the way I see it.

(Also see: Feline Serial Killer & More Proof Of The Evil Of Felines)