Translator’s Note: The management of this space has appealed to my better nature—and my love of comprehensible English—to get me to convert Sparky’s thoughts into something approaching sense. As always, I take responsibility only for the spelling and grammar of what follows, not for the content…unless I agree with it, which in this case I do. So there. –Moose

(P.S. The lab coat I’m wearing in the illustration is a loaner from Gullible Girl, the inexplicably trusting boon companion and assistant of Science Boy. The two of us have to compare notes someday, or start a support group, or something. Anyway, on to Sparky’s latest contribution to civic discourse…) 

     If you live in Canada (and who doesn’t, other than 99 ½ % of the world’s population), or follow Canadian politics (and who doesn’t, except for all those people I just mentioned, and then some), you’ve already heard more than enough about the Senate expense scandal. If you’re like me (even though I bet you’re not), you wish they’d just jump to the scene where all the suspects are gathered in one room, someone turns off the lights, a few shots ring out, and all that’s left is a pile of bodies for the cleaning lady to sort through on garbage day. All the questions about who knew what and what it’s all connected to aren’t getting anything like answers yet, so I thought I’d toss in a question of my own.

HOW EFFING HARD IS IT TO KNOW IF YOU’VE BROKEN A RULE????

     I’m not talking about impossible stuff, like the rules on parking signs. I mean, would there actually be a rule or regulation beyond the brainpower of someone who spent most of their adult life figuring things out for a living? Someone like, say, an ex-journalist? Or, in this case, two ex-journalists? Ignorance of the law is exactly the excuse that Mike Duffy and Pamela Wallin have been trying to claim…along with a couple of houses that nesting squirrels have probably lived in more than they have, and enough airfare to fly out, find Amelia Earhart, bring her back, then take her out and get her lost again.

     Okay then, let’s give them the benefit of the doubt. The rules of ethics for the Canadian Senate are so complex that even a longtime political correspondent for a national TV network can’t begin to fathom them. That’d be fine in my book, if it weren’t for three other senators saying that these rules aren’t difficult at all to follow. One’s Larry Smith, who spent nine years in Canadian professional football as a running back; another is Nancy Greene Raine, an Olympic champion downhill skier; the third is Jacques Demers, a Stanley Cup-winning hockey coach and former minor professional hockey player. Besides being senators, these three have one very important thing in common: they’ve all sustained blows to the head.

     It’s just the law of averages—you don’t reach a high level of competition in football, downhill ski racing, or hockey without having your cranium introduced to terra firma, an opponent, or anything else that isn’t keen on making the introduction politely. The occasional whomp on the melon just goes with the territory. And since all three plied their sporting trades (I stole that phrase from Uncle Fun) way back before they checked hay fever sufferers for concussions every time they sneezed, it’s kind of likely that they all picked up some form of undiagnosed cerebral injury. Who knows how long they’ve been wandering around with secret bruises on their brains?

     My point is this: three people with bruised brains find some pretty basic rules about right and wrong easy to understand. On top of slightly mangled grey matter, one of them—Jacques Demers—is, by his own admission, what you might call a latecomer to literacy. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that he’s yet to Dick-and-Jane his way up to the finer points of ethical behaviour as outlined by Plato or Immanuel Kant—or even to the level of reading material that’s on Mike Duffy’s or Pamela Wallin’s bookshelves.   

     So, what’s going on here? Why couldn’t Duffy and Wallin grasp something that was child’s play for Larry Smith, Nancy Greene Raine, and Jacques Demers? It has to be the blows to the head. They must knock something into you—or knock something out…like the notion that you can get away with lying forever, if you practice hard enough.

     So, here’s my solution: everybody involved in politics in Canada needs a good hard hit in the head. Not just elected officials, appointed ones, too—after all, Canada is the country where a judge ruled that plagiarism is okay, as long as a judge does it. Let’s clobber 'em all—lobbyists…political advisors…pollsters….chiefs of staff…the Governor General. Grandfather that last one so that Michaëlle Jean gets a wrecking ball right upside the orbitals for letting Parliament be prorogued on flimsy pretenses not once, but twice. Better yet, make it two wrecking balls, flailing around like that clacky toy Uncle Fun keeps telling me to stop playing with while he’s trying to concentrate on the tumblers of a combination lock.

     And, as long as I’m talking about Parliament, the heck with Question Period. Just let the pages loose on the government and opposition benches like the Marx Brothers in Duck Soup, klonking every noggin they run past. Give them all a great big skull-crunching hit in the head, I say—and do it now. No special favours. No exemptions. No exceptions. Start with the head that’s at the head of the entire mess. Clamp Stephen Harper’s temples in a vise, and give him a hit in his little pin head for every pinheaded stunt he’s ever pulled to make the government the clown show it’s turned into while he’s been ringmaster.

     Matter of fact, you could probably stop there, and things’d turn out alright.

Sparky

 

This week’s Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan also features a conversation over cards:

 

This is why I prefer playing hockey as my form of social recreation…there’s no time for chitchat like this when you’re dodging a stick in the mouth.

 

This week, The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan deals with another question of identity:

 

By the way, “if I am nothing to myself, who am I, really?” is not the thing to say when they pull you over and ask you for ID.

 

 

An open letter to Nigel Wright, Chief of Staff, Office of the Prime Minister of Canada:

Dear Sir,

    We hear tell that you have at your disposal large sums of money which you are freely willing to hand out to anyone who’s in a fix. The fact that you’re able to pull out your chequebook and sign over $90,000 without a second thought means that you must be both a great philanthropist and an astute financial manager. An amount like that must be fairly close to your salary for an entire year, so to be able to throw it to the winds means that you must be sitting on top of quite a considerable nest egg indeed.

    With that in mind, we wish to beg a boon of you. We and several of our acquaintances habitually find ourselves on the wrong side of the balance sheet, so naturally we thought to turn to you for help. You are exactly the sort of fair-minded and trusting individual we prefer to do business with, since you don’t seem to worry yourself too much over trivialities like proper documentation to justify expenditures.

    Before moving on to the further details of what we hope will be a long and fruitful partnership, however, we do require one small gesture in good faith from you. We know that the results of audits don’t concern you much, but a recent once-over of your government’s coffers revealed that something to the tune of $3.1 billion dollars has gone missing. Since the money can’t be accounted for, you can’t be using it for anything important, so you should probably return it to the taxpayers who gave it to you in the first place. With interest, of course — we understand that this is the standard practice of your tax department when they collect delinquent payments. What’s good for the goose that laid the golden eggs, as it were, is good for the gander. As a gesture of our own good faith, we ask nothing more than you make out a cheque for the full amount to the Canada Revenue Agency, and let them distribute it as their own records guide them to. We are confident that you have this much squirrelled away somewhere…or at least can get your hands on it without too much trouble.

    We are equally confident that any money you subsequently give to us has been obtained by means which will pass scrutiny; if it hasn’t, we have no qualms about laundering as much of it as you don’t plan on ever seeing again. You may count on our discretion, if nothing else.

    Looking forward to hearing from you by mail, private courier, wire transfer, or the time-tested method of a satchel of unmarked bills left in a hollow tree, we remain yours sincerely,

Uncle Fun and Sparky

P.S. If you review our offer, you’ll find it to be a much better deal than other possible ways of sharing your good fortune — for example, trying to buy the silence of a mooching ex-journalist who turns around and spills the beans to his former colleagues when things get too hot for him.

 

 

This week, The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan addresses one of the key issues of our time:

 

Okay, not really—it’s just another First World problem with an important-sounding name.

(Note: The slogan on the flag that Sparky’s holding is the rallying cry of Funsville’s only homegrown political movement, the Fibbertarians. They’re a small but not terribly fanatical cadre dedicated to the principle that a government and its people should be allowed to tell each other the occasional harmless white lie. Our friend Dermot the Circus Worm lends his likeness and celebrity status to the movement, for a modest consideration. Sparky can tell you the rest of what’s on his mind better than anybody else could—no particular surprise there—so I yield the floor to him. –Uncle Fun)

Thanks, an’ a Happy Tony Gwynn’s Birthday ta all'a you fans'a precision opposite-field hittin’,

So, I see that th’ big thing on th’ World Wide Interweb this week is ‘bout how some law stoodint in Texas has made hisself a real live workin’ gun usin’ a 3-D printer an’ some plans lifted frum a govimmunt website. B’fore I go off all half-cocked (which I’m gonna do anyway), Uncle Fun wanted me ta tell ya that this sorta thing is very much in keepin’ wit’ th’ American Way an’ whatnot, ‘cuz th’ mass manufacture of interchangeable machine-tooled parts for firearms was one of the things that made the American Revolution possible. (Unk also spelled that last part fer me, so’s ya’d know whut I wuz talkin’ ‘bout.)  

Inishully, I thot the guy musta done this azza skool projeck — like mebbe he wuz majorin’ in Th’ Law West’a th’ Pecos, er some such — but it turns out he’s jus’ one’a those constatooshunnal litterullists who thinks that th’ right ta th’ persoot’a happiness is yoonilaterull. Now, there’s such a thing as standin’ up fer yer beleefs, an’ there’s whut Uncle Fun calls bein’ a rectal sphincter about th’ whole thing. Whatever that means, this creep definitely sounds like he’s oozin’ t’wards th’ proctology end’a th’ lower intestine. Anyone as knows me knows that I’ve gotta high threshold fer whut constitutes irresponsibull beehavyur, but buddy here has Chuck-Yeagered thru my “sounds like a bad idea” barrier at about Mach 150.

In th’ interest’a fairness (which I’ve never found all that interestin’, but that’s another story), I’ll give ya The Case in Favor fer Xeroxed shootin’ irons. It runs like this:

1. Ya need a gun in case someone wants ta take yer stuff.
2. Ya need a gun in case one other person in th’ entiyure world has one.

(Well, that wuz boring.) Now, The Case Against. As fer Point 1, I’ve found that th’ best approach ta th’ consept’a persunnal property is ta never own nothin’ that ya diddunt get frum someone else. That way, ya don’ miss it as much when someone takes it frum ya. Point 2 is just plain silly, an’ not just frum th’ obveeyus standpoint’a creatin’ th’ potenshul fer needless bloodshed. Havin’ a gun ain’t gonna perteck Joe Average against th’ folks as is always gonna have guns — i.e., yer skill’d marksmen an’ yer crazy gun nuts. Yer marksman is gonna draw a bead on Joe Average an’ drop him b’fore he knows whut hit him, an’ yer gun-crazy nutjob ain’t gonna care ‘bout proper perfeshunnal techneek b’fore he starts blazin’ away. If we all hafta have a gun ta fend off crazy gun nuts, then we all become crazy gun nuts.

B’sides, th’ whole “ya gotta have a gun” argumint presupposes that there ain’t no other effecktive d’fensive weapons in th’ world. (Uncle Fun sez I’m not allow’d ta tell th’ whole internet whut I kin manage wit’ a egg whisk, er a emery board.) Unless ya kin use Dr. Tongue’s 3-D Gun Printer ta whip ya up a extra pair’a eyes fer th’ back’a yer head, ya ain’t got no way’a knowin’ everywhere trubble may be comin’ frum at any given momunt. As if that wuzzent enuf (an’ fer crazy gun nuts, nothin’ ever is), a weapon is only as good as whoever’s usin’ it. Even wit’ a fancy homemade plastic gun, ya ain’t got no way’a dealin’ wit’ trubble if ya’ve got th’ gun-aimin’ skills’a Barney Fife.

All’a this crazy gun nut Seckund Amendmint stuff is bad enuf, but that ain’t th’ crux’a Texas Plastic Gun Boy’s argumint. He pulled his li’l Smith an’ Wesson impersunashun jus’ ta show all th’ other crazy gun nuts out there how easy it is ta do. (It ain’t quite that easy yet, forchunately, ‘cuz th’ printer ya need ta make a plastic gun that don’ fall apart when ya release th’ safety costs sumpin’ like eighty-seven kajillion dollars, discount price. Fer once, whut Uncle Fun calls th’ invisibbul hand’a th’ free market has got it right.)

This’d be neither fish ner fowl ta anyone, I guess, ‘cept Plastic Gun Boy is studyin’ ta be a lawyer. I figger he musta miss’d th’ class where they walk ya thru th’ differnce b’tween flappin yer gums ‘bout what someone might hypathetickally do — like, say, if they wuz under th’ control’a aliens frum Planet Stunned-in-th’-Head — an’ ackchewally haulin’ off an’ doin’ it in th’ real world, where it has consequences. As a service ta educashun in gen’ral, an’ Gun Boy’s educashun in particular, I’ll let ya in onna few other tidbits’a informashun ya kin git fer free an’ easy offa th’ Web:

1. Gun Boy’s Real Name. It’s Cody Wilson.
2. Where Gun Boy Goes Ta School. It’s The University of Texas at Austin.
3. What Faculty Gun Boy is Studyin’ In. As I said b’fore, he’s takin’ Law.
4. Tidbits 1 thru 3 make it easy enuf fer anyone wit’ a smidgen’a inishative ta find out Tidbit 4: Where Gun Boy Lives.
5. Google Earth’ll give ya a decent view’a Tidbit 4, makin’ it easier ta case th’ joint.
6. Finally, a all-importunt tidbit: Th’ video Gun Boy posted on YouTube has NO footage showin’ him (er anyone else) firing the Amazing Homemade Plastic Gun. Also, th' video that shows him testin' it duzzent show if he even came close ta hittin' th' broad side'a Texas wit' th' one bullet he got off clean. I kinda figger as big a braggart as he is would wanna show off if he wuz a crack shot, so it’s a fair guess he’s a lot less like Doc Holliday when he hasta pull th’ trigger than he is like th’ aforemenshunned Barney Fife. (Th' form he displays in th' firin' range video bears this out, by th' way.)

Wit’ all that in mind, I wanna make it clear that I’m not suggestin’ that anyone track down Exploding Plastic Inevitable Gun Boy an’ put his claims ta th’ test in any illegalish kinda way. All’s I’m sayin’ is that this informashun is even easier ta ackcess than th’ seeckrit plans ta a plastic gun, an’ has far more potenshul ta be misus’d in a real an’ non-comic-book-type way. Speakin’ as a cartoon character, I kin draw onna wealth’a expeeriyunts on th’ subjeckt’a whut’s real an’ whut izzunt.

B’sides, it ain’t like there ain’t no plastic guns out there already. One’a my persunnal faverts is th’ Super Soaker. If ya gots nothin’ better ta do, ya cood always fill one’a these beauties up wit’ grape Kool-Aid (er anythin’ else that leaves a harmless but embarrassin’ stain), look up Plastic Gun Boy, draw a bead on him, an’ let him have it wit’ both barrels. Tell him Civilization sez “hi”, an’ wood appreshiate it if he stopp’d by more often. As Mister Kuzzents, Senior, who wuz in a World War where they play’d wit’ guns fer keeps an’ not simply ta win d’bate points wit’ th’ Ron Paul crowd, usedta say, “never let anyone know you have a gun unless you’ve got at least one bullet for everyone who finds out.”

 Sparky

This week, The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan is about the perils of putting style before substance:

 

 This is probably not the time to mention that I once owned a pair of pants that made me look like Roger Rabbit.

 

Hello, sports fans, and all the ships that sail on them:

     The leadoff to this missive comes from Hake Zackenbarsch, ace mop-up man for the Funsville Fun Sox. What’s the significance of this, you ask? Well, the fable linked to last week’s posting, which was about the trials and tribulations of a salmon, got us all thinking about angels.

     Of course it did.

     Here’s your boarding pass for the train of thought that led up to this. Not so long ago, in a simpler time when we were all younger, more foolish and believed that Warren Buffett knew how to make money for anybody but himself, the California Angels had an outfielder by the name of Tim Salmon. The California Angels are now the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, Azusa, and Cucamonga, and their centerfielder is a chap called Mike Trout. Unlike most trout, he has an impressive pedigree (or is that pescigree?), being the son and grandson of two former major league pitchers, Steve and Paul “Dizzy” Trout respectively. (The family has thirty-four years to get two more of its descendants into the major leagues, to make a full-fledged Trout Quintet in time for the 250th anniversary of the birth of Franz Schubert.) 

     This led Sparky to ask if there was a clause in the by-laws of the American League making it mandatory for the Angels to have at least one player with the name of a fish in their outfield. I told him I thought it was more likely a National League rule from the years when Chub Feeney was league president. This led to a spirited discussion about the possibility of fielding an entire lineup of fish-named baseball players. (Would this make it “bouilla-baseball”? I don’t know…you tell us.)

     Here’s the squid…er, sorry—squad—we came up with. Our panel set themselves a few basic ground rules before going on their fishing expedition for talent:

1. The players have to have played in the major leagues for at least the equivalent of one full season (502 plate appearances for position players or 162 innings pitched for pitchers is the standard we used).
2. The fish names must be surnames only, the better to stitch onto the back of a uniform. No first names or nicknames—this rules out the likes of Shad Barry, Marlin Stuart, Catfish Hunter, Catfish Metkovitch, and Mudcat Grant.
3. No names of fish parts—the Finns and Gills of the baseball world are out of luck…as is Preacher Roe. (Kind of a pity, that…his name alone would have made him the caviar of our pitching staff.)
4. Properly-spelled fish names only—no “Spratt”s with two t’s and so forth. As the self-appointed representative of the non-spelling community, Sparky voiced his objection to this rule, but was ultimately voted down. This stipulation, like the previous one, served to weaken our team, as it deprived us of the hitting, fielding, and speed of Ralph Garr.
5. Only the names of fish are subject for consideration—no crustaceans, cephalopods, or other forms of underwater life. So much for Roy Crabb, or Ron Oyster…um, Oester. There’s no room for shellfish ballplayers on this team.
6. And—no puns, no matter how outrageously entertaining they may be. (This too is unfortunate, because it disqualifies Warren Spahn and Harvey Haddix…not to mention Carlton Fish…um, Fisk.)

     Now that you’re familiar with our exacting criteria, here’s our starting nine:

First Base         Sid Bream   

(He’s a consensus first-stringer on two counts. Not only does he have an appropriately fishy surname, but anyone who ever saw him run can attest that he moved with all the speed and elegance of a fish on dry land.)

Mike Carp

(He’s a—excuse the watery pun—current player, and his name’s too good to keep him off the team. He and Sid Bream both bat left, so there’s no chance of a platoon, but he can always DH.)

Second Base      Bobby Sturgeon

Third Base         Dickie Thon

(This one is, admittedly, a bit of a reach. He’s playing out of position—most of his career was spent at short. Also, “Thon” isn’t quite a fish name—not an English one, at any rate. In French, though, “thon” means “tuna”.)

Shortstop         Chico Salmon

(No relation to Tim, but one of Panama’s earliest exports to the majors.)

Left field           Kevin Bass

(Also playing out of position, but his bat’s too good to keep him out of the lineup. Tim Salmon had the better throwing fin…er, arm, and therefore goes in right field.)

Center Field      Mike Trout

Right Field         Tim Salmon              

Catcher             Ed Whiting

Pitchers            Dizzy Trout

Steve Trout

Bob Kipper                                                        

     The panel apologizes for a certain degree of repetition in this roster. We felt that the entire Trout family deserved its due. Besides, as Sparky so eloquently put it, anyone named Salmon was lox to make the team.

     I want to emphasize that Sparky said that, not me. You probably also would not be surprised to hear that he suggested that the team be managed by Connie Mackerel.

     I’m sure you’re all dying to hear more—such as what we think of our team’s chances of finishing in first plaice—er, yes, well…but I have to see about getting in touch with the proper dignitary to throw the ceremonial first pitch on Opening Day. I wonder if anybody remembers Senator Edmund Muskie…? Come to that, I wonder if I remember where I put that Ouija board…

Uncle Fun

P.S. I know, I know—something with this many fish in it really should have been posted on a Friday. Nobody here’s all that religious anyway…okay, we all religiously avoid work, but that’s another kettle of you-know-what. In any case, we can probably slip this one past new Pope Francis while he’s still getting used to the job.