'Goaltender’ is just ‘rent old age’ with the letters rearranged…

   My host Mr. Cousins may not be able to spot the chance of a lifetime, but I certainly can. I’ve had to step over his goalie pads often enough to recognize his dedication to that particular blend of acrobatics and masochism known as ‘playing nets’, so when I see this, this and this on the World Wide Web, I feel I must speak up on his behalf. Being of a retiring nature (he’s been practicing to be retired for a quarter of a century now, but has yet to find anyone who will give him a pension in return for all those years of service), my good host would never put himself forth for such an opportunity for fame and fractures in the name of upholding the honour of a top-caliber professional hockey franchise. Allow me, then, to adopt the guise (and with any luck, the commission) of his agent pro tem, and enumerate his qualifications as an emergency backup goalie for any team that may find itself in dire straits in future:

-As well as being roughly the same age as this fellow, he has the same devil-may-care, happy-go-lucky attitude towards contusions, charley horses, knee sprains, groin pulls, separated shoulders, and concussions.

In addition, not only is he every bit the equal of our friend pictured above in terms of lateral motion, he has an extra degree of mobility, in the form of an uncanny knack for falling over on demand (and given time, even getting back up again).

-The mental aspect of his game is also beyond reproach. As well as having long since mastered the full vocabulary of epithets and obscenities required for every eventuality a goalie may encounter, he also has the streak of fatalism necessary to survive the existential rigours of his thankless task. He’s so fatalistic, in fact, that the first time he saw The Seventh Seal, he thought it was a comedy.

-If all you need is a backup goalie, he’s spent his entire hockey ‘career’ being just that. Not only have years of practice finely honed his ability to sit motionless on the end of a bench for long stretches of time, but he keeps this skill at razor-sharpness by training several hours every day on the sofa at home.

   So, should any major league, minor league, or college hockey team (he still has full eligibility, assuming intramural games back in the Twentieth Century don’t count) require the services of an extra target who can be pressed into service to fill a roster spot in a pinch, contact me and we’ll arrange terms. In the meantime, he’s always welcome to work out with the Funsville Funsters, semi-pro though they may be.

Uncle Fun

P.S. Thanks but no thanks, Unk. The Funsters’ idea of ‘semi-pro’ involves me paying them…and by certified cheque.



Dot...dot...dot...not...not...not...

Reasons you don't want to get the flu that's going around my neck of the woods: it fogs up your mind and makes you think things like this...what if things were just a little different in the comedy of humours/casebook of obsessive-compulsive behaviour known as Harvey Comics?

Say, for example, Little Dot had been fixated, not on dots...

...but on plaid?

Or, heaven forbid, paisley?

Drawing Little Dot may not have been the most rewarding occupation, but those other possibilities would have been good for a staffroom full of nervous breakdowns at Harvey. I don't even want to think about the repercussions if they'd let her follow fashion trends in the 60's and got her hung up on tie-dying.

The prospect of her and Little Lotta becoming Deadhead groupie-chicks has me tripped out, man...I need another Sudafed.



What’s a Greek urn? The EU’s still trying to figure that one out…

Aristotle would have analyzed the debt and broken it down into its constituent parts, but would have done nothing else about it.

Plato would have said that the actual debt represented an imperfect imitation of the ideal of the concept of debt, and would have offered to pay back two cents on the dollar.

Socrates would have asked the European Union to define the term ‘debt’, thereby buying a little time before Angela Merkel and Nicolas Sarkozy passed him the hemlock.

Alexander the Great would have tied Merkel and Sarkozy into a Gordian knot, and cut them into little pieces.

Zorba would have just danced.

Just something for you hockey fans to think about...

...while you're watching the between-periods panel on Hockey Night in Canada tonight (and every Saturday night). Take a good look...

Yogi Bear and Boo Boo...

...Mike Milbury and P.J. Stock.

 

Think about it.

 

What percentage of a thousand words is this picture worth...?

Some things just have to be seen to be believed. Take a good look...

...now, look again, and do the math.

That's all I'm going to say.

Looks like someone’s being careless with The Rapture again…



I am offishully sick an’ tired’a THIS gink.

It’s on account’a him what you haven’t heard frum us in so long. When I hurd what that he’d said about May the 21th bein’ just sumpin’ like a warm-up round fer Judgmint Day an’ that th’ main event, fifteen rounds ta th’ finish, no standin’ eight-counts, no bein’ saved by th’ bell, wuz atchilly gonna be on Ocktobur th’ 21th, I figgered, how kin th’ guy be wrong twice in a row so quickly, right? So, as a preckaushun, I glommed onta whatever I could get my hands on…

(Editor’s note: from my house, that is…including my computer. Thanks, buddy.)

Don’ menshun it. Then I holed alluvus up in Fun Central (locashun undisclos’d as bein’ an Offishul Seekrit), an’ waited fer th’ inevitbbul, figgerin’ mebbe th’ Rapture frum Jurassic Park er wherever th’ Rapture comes frum might git lost on th’ way ta such a outta-th’way lockashun, an’ we’d get us some time bought ta see if mebbe we could raise th’ cavalry er a passin’ spaceship er God er th’ Flyin’Spaghetti Monster on th’ e-mail, an’ loophole our way out th’ whole mess.

(Editor’s note: except that e-mail only works on a computer if you have a land line or wi-fi, neither of which Fun Central has.)

Th’ absents of both tellafone an’ why-fye bein’ ever furthermore proof of why it’s th’ funnest place on Earth. Which is still here, an’ I’m glad fer it, but I mean, what a gyp. Can’t Mr. Doomsday git nuthin’ right? I mean, I had some cold hard cash ridin’ on this, an if th’ suckers I bet with realize what that th’ Earth’s still here an’ not all Apockalypsed up er nuthin’, then I got some serious coin ta raise aluuv a suddin.

(Editor’s note: let’s not get into the details of how Sparky was planning to collect if he won.)

My plan had sumpin’ ta do with subbin’ in fer St. Peter at th’ Pearly Gates, an’ settin’ a cover charge fer Heaven. Anyway, what’s this thing whut Mister I-Want-to-Pass-over-inta-Camping-Ground’s got with th’ enduv th’ world, anyway? Has he got real estate in some other partuv th’ Soler Systum that he wants ta unload after we all get evicktud offa this here planutt? An’ what’s his deal with bein’ so bent outta shape about th’ number 21? First it’s May 21, then Ocktobur 21…always with th’ 21’s he’s plannin’ Doomsday fer…whut—wuz his muthur scared by a blackjack dealer when she wuz carryin’ him?

(That may not add up to the end of the world, but it’s the end of what Sparky had to say before he trailed off into even greater unintelligibility than usual. For those still interested in whether the world is going to end, I suggest spending a few minutes with these gentlemen from Beyond the Fringe.)

P.S. All I’m going to say, Sparky, is that is the LAST time I let you house-sit for me while I’m travelling. I bent the rear axle on the Funmoblie using it to break down my front door.

Uncle Fun

P.P.S. Aw, whut’s a couple’a concrete barricades an’ some extra padlocks b’tween friends?

In a fantasy hockey league, would the Fantasy Islanders be coached by Mr. Roarke?

Hello, hockey fans, and all those who have to live with them:

   With the NHL season opening this week, two questions are uppermost in the minds of Canada’s legion of shinny-watchers. Will the new Winnipeg Jets be challengers? And, if so, will members of cabinet use them at the taxpayer’s expense?

   Ask a silly question…I think it’s high time I turned this space over to Sparky, so he can explain what he’s been doing to get ready for the nine-odd months of organized mayhem on ice that have just gotten underway.

Thanks, Foster (my colour-communtary joke fer th’ old folks out there). As is per usual, I’ve bin puttin’ tagether my annyuwall draft picks fer my fantasy hockey team. This wuz my ‘ridginnul choice fer goalie:  







If Plastic Man kin hold back a convertibull, stretchin’ ‘cross six-by-four foot’a net ta stop a puck otta be a snap. He don’t leave much five-hole, neither.

‘Parently, tho’ “fantasy league” don’ mean acktuwall fantasy, which also means that my plan ta play my team’s home games on’ th’ dark side’a th’ planet Mercury got scotched like so much tape. There goes our home-ice advantudge bas’t on’ th’ extreem low cold temperchur an th’ differeuntz in gravity frum Earth. Instead, Uncle Fun insisted whut that my choices otta have some kunneckshun with sumpin’ that sounded like “very silly mint chewed”, which I guess means actual real-live, real-life hockey an’ stuff. So, here’s th’ sieve I hadda settle for:

He’s ugly, his mom dresses him funny, an’ he’s got th’ kinda unorthadocks, outta-control style that gets coaches placin’ standin’ orders fer Di-gel with their lockul farmassees. If I gotta be stuck with Mistur Awkwurd an’ his self-separatin’ shoulders, I’d better have a rowbust pair’a deefensemun what’ll keep th’ crease clear whiles he surrounds th’ puck an’ ressles it inta submission:





These couple’a salty sea dogs look like they wooden take no guff from Moby Dick even.

Whatever, Monstro. Next, I pickt this scrappy face-off speshullist as my cennermun. He looks like an ace pennulty-killer, too. As well, if things get nasty, I betcha he knows howta spear guys in th’ pertective cup an’ get away with it.

Ju’s so’s ya know that my coachin’ filossofee ain’t nowheres like th’ illustrayshun at th’ top’a this entry, I’ll tellya I allus make a point’a pickin’ a big-time scorin’-type winger. My choice fer triggerman came down ta these two guys:

This smoothie looks ta have a good set’a hands, but he might be kinduva creampuff in the corners. So, I opted fer this other guy instead:





He looks like he won’t be so shy to dig the puck out along th’ boards, an’ he’s got that breakaway acksellerashun that wuz made fer th’ new era of no-red-line play.

Ta make up fer th’ undersizedness of my other two forwards, my other winger needed ta have moreuva pshysicull presence:

I double-dog dare anyone onna pair’a skates ta tangle with this big bruiser. Those psycho eyes’a his could mean suspenshuns galore, tho’. Do I get a extra pick I kin use onna good criminnul lawyer?

POSTSCRIPT: No, Sparky, I don’t think your salary cap includes either a legal retainer or a fund for bail bonds.

Uncle Fun