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Only In Life

Only in life do I discover today that suddenly my local cable station has decided to offer Al Jazeera for free for three months and, only in life, when I call them to ask them to cancel it, is the operator's name Hamid.

Out of thousands, I get Hamid. Don't get me wrong, but can you see the cosmic irony?

For the record, he was a totally cool guy. He swallowed my "uh, okay, yeah"s with a very pleasant attitude.

Thanks, Hamid! Hey, if King Juan of Spain had a channel, or the Pope, I'd probably cancel him too.

The Nazis at Chowhound

That's the last fucking time I post at Chowhound. The forum moderators are some of the biggest and most pretentious assholes I've ever encountered.

Don't bother to have a sense of humor. VE HAFF NO HUMOR! Don't dare stray, even a few words, from the point of your post. VE ARE READINK EFFERY VORD!

Hey, I have a better idea: don't bother at all!

Here's the latest exchange with Fritz and Girndl Chowhound:

Me:
I'm reading a "Best shrimp recipes" book and although it states the obvious (that unless you live 15 minutes from the sea, no thawed shrimp you get will ever be as fresh as those that have never been thawed, since they're flash frozen right on the boat) it does say that "the freshest alternative you will find is live shrimp kept in salt water at Chinese markets."

Not that I'd know what the heck to do with a live anything, but that sure sounds tasty. Anyone ever seen a live shrimp in Montreal?

And just for curiosity's sake, how would you dispatch the poor critter? Could you ask the fish guy to do it for you? I wouldn't want a bunch of live shrimp crawling around in a plastic bag in the car on the way home. I'd probably name them, put some salt in some cold water and go look for some krill to feed them.
Thanks in advance!

They:
Hi there, if you'd like to discuss how to dispatch live shrimp, please start another thread in Home Cooking. Advice on where to find live shrimp in Montreal are welcome to stay here on the Quebec board. Thanks!

You utter pompous puffed-up strutting Nazi.

(Click of heels) JAVOL, herr oberleutnant! I vill obey!

Bring Me the Head of Josef Stalin!

Well, guess what, kids, I've done just that! Here's "Uncle Joe" resting comfortably with the rest of the boys!

Postscript: Brigitte has declared: "There is no way that I will allow that thing in my house. Get rid of it immediately."


Well, I had his head for a while.

The Little Grass Is Sleeping. Please Don’t Disturb It

 This is Chinglish for "Keep Off The Grass."

How very lovely. If only all our signs were like that.

Hee hee! They're going to eat you!

And it won't be pretty!

I just bought and am eagerly anticipating the arrival of a Venus Flytrap, a Sundew and a couple of other carnivorous plants!

You should check them out here.

Craven

I don't know why I think that comes from the word for a crow, but it might.

I don't know, but if you've followed this blog long enough, you'll see that I have a somewhat craven method of getting things done in life.

It's not always fair, but life is not always fair. In fact, it's downright capricious.

But the problem I'm facing tonight has to do with knowing the difference of being craven or being honest.

The crow is a good example. Do you think he actually knows how to make you part with your McDonald's burger in the park?

Well, yes. He doesn't want to hurt you in any way, but he wants his lunch. See? The difference between a crow and Goldman Sacks The Entire Village?

But Brigitte and I are going to Emergency tomorrow morning. Problem being that her knee is so painful that (due to unknowable circumstances) she can barely make it to the bathroom, let alone the walk to Metro.

But Brigitte and I are very different. Have you ever seen those old movies where Frank Sinatra is pretending to be a Nazi, manages to kidnap the train with his little army, and blows up Norway?

Well, I understand Frank. How can you do that?

I told Brigitte, in the most locical terms I could think of:

Fact: ER does not want to see us at 8 a.m. on a Sunday. They just want to go home.

Fact: after processing your medicare card, you'll be told to sit down until they call you.

Fact: that will be in, oh, about three hours.

So what do you do? I'll tell you what I told Brigitte. Ya got a bum knee. They really couldn't give a fuck. The guy last night was in full V Fib and may or may not have survived the night. Fuck your bum knee, sit down and wait with the rest of them.

But what you do in my book is appeal to them as human beings, not just idiots who processed your card.

"Long night? Christ, how can you stand to be here on a Sunday? I feel your pain. Rather, I feel MY pain."

There ya go. Foot in the door.

Next: "Okay, madame, what can we do for you today?"

WRONG: "My knee is very painful and it's been very difficult to walk. I'm not sure what's wrong with it. I think I need a cortisone shot."

RIGHT: "There's something really wrong with my knee and I have no idea what it could be. I made an appointment with Dr. Rahal .  .  . er, do you know him? But he says he can't see me till June.

"The pain isn't my real issue, but last night it was so bad that when I woke up in the night I tripped over the nightstand and then my heart started doing strange things."

See? Immediate results. Oh really? Heart? Strange things?

Please sit down, madame, and next thing ya know, the cardiac guy is with you and then it's just a logical progression to your cortisone shot. Ahead of the sixteen people ahead of you in line.

Craven?

Maybe.

But how long have crows been around and how long have you been around?