Would a criminal organization for making predictions be called ‘The Cosa Nostradamus’…? ...oh, never mind…

Happy 2012, Fellow Denizens of the Worldwide Web:

   Many thanks for having stopped here in the midst of your Google-searches for hangover cures for the New Year’s Day after the New Year’s Eve before. The year 2012 promises to be a pivotal one, providing as it does the vital link between the years 2011 and 2013. With so much in the world today in a state of flux, limbo, abeyance, uncertainty, and escrow, we thought it apt to furnish you, the timorous and fearful masses, with a few words of certainty, if not comfort. To that end (and sparing no expense to the management), we have engaged the services of our acquaintance Professor Proteus and his sometime adversary and fellow techno-savant Science Boy (about whom more in the near future) to retrofit CyberSparky with a prototype of something called ‘The Predict-o-Tron Module’. As a test run, we fed the newly upgraded CyberSparky a series of questions concerning events in the year to some. Here is a sampling of the more plausible results:

   We’ll start with an easy one…

-For the first time in four years, days in February will not fall on the same day of the week as days in March. Things will return to normal in 2013, when March 1^st will happen on a Friday, the same as February 1^st.

   Now that we’ve got that cheap success experience out of the way, on to the trickier ones. The one-half-billionth of the world’s population aware of current events in Canada can read the next two; the rest of you can skip ahead:

-Quebec City will get a new arena. The day before it is scheduled to open, a provincial board of inquiry will charge all those involved in securing the contract for the arena, and every construction firm involved in building it, with multiple counts of fraud and influence peddling. The arena will be converted into a minimum-security prison to house them all.

-Stephen Harper will start carrying ball bearings in his hand, clacking them around as he mutters incoherently about finding whoever stole his strawberries. Not even his wife and family will notice the least bit of difference in him.

   As a bonus (?) for those of you who haven’t moved on to what will happen to more significant parts of the global family, click on the azure-hued link which follows to hear something about one of the pivotal years in Canadian history.

   The rest of CyberSparky’s prognostications are grouped by category:

WORLD AFFAIRS

-Angela Merkel and Nicolas Sarkozy will jump in a Ford Model A sedan together and go on a rampage of machine-gunning mayhem around Europe, telling anyone who isn’t too busy ducking bullets, “We’re Bonnie and Clyde. We ruin banks.”

-In a related development, the EU will put Russell Brand in charge of its economic policy, secure in the knowledge that it couldn’t make things any worse.

-In an attempt to re-connect with disillusioned voters in the 18-to-30 age bracket, a third party will draft Super Mario as a presidential candidate.

Mario will immediately face severe press scrutiny over the issue of whether or not his U.S. citizenship is valid. Even more severe charges of nepotism will follow, when his brother Luigi is named as the candidate for Vice-President.

However, Super Mario’s promise to distribute coins with magical powers will resonate with the electorate, and will be adopted by congressional and senatorial candidates for both the Republican and Democratic parties.

SPORTS

-In an effort to increase the medal count of host country Great Britain, the International Olympic Committee will declare gurning, skiving, and whinging official demonstration sports.

(The man(?) pictured above will carry the Olympic torch into the stadium during the opening ceremonies.)

ENTERTAINMENT

-Charlie Sheen will try to start something called the “Occupy Charlie Sheen’s Bed” movement.

-To commemorate the 100^th anniversary of the Titanic disaster, Céline Dion will officially be declared as having sunk without a trace.

SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY

-Geneticists will find a way of fusing Lady Gaga, Katy Perry, Gwen Stefani, Christina Aguilera, and Fergie into a single living being. The creation will be called “Bat-Sh**-Crazy Woman” and will live forever, freeing the world from having to care about when the next version of this same tired old act is going to come along.

-During researches into the Higgs boson, a lab assistant will spill coffee on a control panel, causing a miniature Big Bang in the Hadron supercollider. This will be taken as conclusive proof that the entire Universe is really just one big accident after all.

   As you can see, there are still one or two bugs to be worked out in CyberSparky’s programming. However, the way things are going, it wouldn’t surprise any of us at Fun Central if these were some the least strange things to come to pass in the next 366 days. With any luck, we’ll have every one of those days to find out if the Mayans were right after all.

   Right then, all of you—back to more important things…like tweeting to your friends about the most ridiculous-looking floats in the Rose Bowl parade.

Uncle Fun

Those Magi have got a lot to answer for, in my opinion...

Tidings of Comfort and Joy, All Ye Merry Consumers:

Tho’ Christmas Day is bearing down on us like a runaway freight train on an icy track, there’s still time to purchase tokens of love and appeasement for all those Special Someones on your list. We at the Uncle Fun and Sparky Clearing House have last-minute gift ideas for every taste and budget, including this year’s big holiday bargain, Downgraded Belgian Government Bonds. For those of you whose spending limit and tolerance for bankruptcy proceedings are a bit more modest, we offer the following suggestions for those hard-to-buy-for family members, friends, coworkers, bosses, teachers, paperboys, garbage men, process servers, and anyone else you want to get off your back until next December:

Dedicated blade shavers swear by the smooth feel that you can only get from a nice sharp razor. They also swear AT all the cuts and abrasions that you can only get from a nice sharp razor. Why not get your favourite self-lacerating face-scraper a little holiday pick-me up, in the form of the OLD ST. NICK AFTERSHAVE AND STYPTIC PENCILS GIFT SET?



The aftershave comes in three festive scents: Egg Nog, Mistletoe, and Last Year’s Fruitcake, and at 120 proof makes the ideal kicker for a dull Christmas party punch. The styptic pencils have a faint aroma of candy canes and bayberry candles, and with all the little incidents of bloodletting that happen in the average home during the holidays, are sure to be a hit with young and old alike.

The ladies on your list will also be able to look their best the whole Yuletide long, if you give them our sampler pack of GOOD KING WENCES’ GLOSS.

Our spectrum-enhancing neon pigments will make your lips shine as brightly as the moon that night when a poor man came in sight, gathering winter fu-u-el, and our blend of space-age polymers and eco-harvested tree resins from the jungles of Central America will give them a sheen that stays deep and crisp and even.

After his encounter with The Cat Who Played For Keeps, our good friend Mr. Cousins can attest to the need to keep your kitty in the Christmas spirit. Sparky searched the internet for nearly a full minute, and found no such item for sale (not even at Hammacher Schlemmer, and they have EVERYTHING you’d ever want), so we’re pleased to offer to you, at a significant discount from our standard holiday retail price, a limited-edition, hand-crafted prototype of  THE SANTA CLAWS SCRATCHING POST.

Another country heard from. Thank you, Miss Moose. A rush order for a lump of coal to be expedited to your stocking has been dispatched to Kris Kringle.  

There is, however, one item which never fails to do the trick, even when you’re shopping for the person who has everything, and then some. It’s THE UNCLE FUN AND SPARKY CLEARING HOUSE SUPER-SPECIAL, ULTRA-FESTIVE HOLIDAY RE-GIFT CERTIFICATE.



This is, after all, the season of giving—and what says ‘giving’ more than giving something that’s already been given?

And, in the whole spirit of all that, with visions of sugarplums dancing in its head and so forth, here’s a link you can click on to listen to something which belongs not to one person, but to the ages. If you can’t get festive hearing Fats Waller singing ‘Jingle Bells’, get on Santa’s knee, and ask him to check you for a pulse.

So, laying a finger aside of my nose...

And fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la to you too, Sparky. Merry Christmas to all, and to all…oh, you know the rest.

Uncle Fun



I could have used Felix and his magical bag today...particularly if he had some bandages in it...

This is how superstitions get started...

I'm walking home from the bus stop, a bag of groceries in each hand, and toting a backpack full of groceries as well. Less than 100 yards from my front door, a black cat walks in front of me. No big deal so far: I'm pretty sure this is one of the locals from the neighbourhood. Then, from under a porch, another local cat emerges, and I become the referee in an ears-back, shoulders-hunched, hissing, spitting bout of feline posturing. Again, it could be worse--it is the Christmas season, after all, and up to now I've been spared from having to face similar behaviour at an office party, or in a shopping mall. With or without my help, Cat Detente is re-established, and the would-be combatants slink off to neutral corners (after two trial runs in which each one darted briefly into traffic before bolting to safety). 

I kneel to pick up the grocery bags which I'd set down on the ground as a precaution against the worst that angry cats and gravity could team up to do. I have company...the black cat has decided that my dedication to Peace on Earth and Goodwill to All Living Things makes me a worthwhile new acquaintance. After a couple of minutes of friendly how-do-you-do chin-rubbing and ear-scratching, I notice that the black cat has a few bits of dead leaves or bramble or burrdocks or some such stuck in the fur of its tail.

Never let it be said that I'm not accidentally prepared for anything. I happen to have a hairbrush in one of the pockets of my backpack, so in the spirit of neighbourly good fellowship, I try to brush as many of the sticky-stuck bits our of the cat's tail as I can. The cat, though fidgety, appreciates this, and rolls over on its back for a tummy rub. For those of you who haven't met a lot of cats, this is their equivalent of a Facebook friend request. I did the equivalent of clicking 'accept', which even those of you who haven't met a lot of cats can probably guess involves the asked-for tummy rub.

And this is how superstitions get started...

In less time than it took you to read the words 'in less time than', my right hand got turned into mincemeat. Some cats, and this was one of them, play hard, and play for keeps. Cold December air and a quickly-applied coffee shop serviette (always take extras, folks--they're free, and you never know when you might need one) kept the gutter from turning into a river of red, but the damage was done. I would have taken to my heels, but my new best friend kept zigzagging in and out of my path, in the hopes of extending Pussycat Playtime into extra innings, and possibly finagling its way into a new pied-a-terre, as I cat-slalomed the rest of the way back home.

One thing those of you who haven't already guessed it by now need to know before we move on: I'm a sucker for cats. This one, unneccessary roughness notwithstanding, might have successfully followed me all the way home if not for the fact that we have a cat...and one with a placid temperament that doesn't need to be upset by having a fur-bearing Mack the Knife shoved into her midst. I had just completed my third lap around my building before I was able to give MacHeath With Whiskers the slip long enough to sneak in the back door.

And this is how superstitions get started, because, as God (or Ceiling Cat) is my witness, every black cat I have ever known has been like this. You think you've got one of them pegged, and CHOMP! SLASH! off comes a layer of skin (yours), while Kitty looks at you as if to say "wasn't that a blast--wanna go again?"

Yessir, if there is a subset of the species felis domesticus prone to absolutely, positively unpredictable straitjacket-worthy nut-job-on-four-legs behaviour, it's the ones with the coats in the midnight hues. If one crosses your path, don't look to crystal balls or gypsies to tell you what sort of bad luck will happen to you, and when. Just check your shins for tell-tale lacerations.

But, as a card-carrying cat lover, I stress to all you ailurophobes out there that nothing like what's at this link is likely to befall you. So there.

The caddy’s recommendation for this shot is a Number One wood…

I allus thot it wuz call’d th’ “Euro Zone”, but I figger we kin all guess now why things is bin goin’ so darn wrong with th’ Euro Club lately…lookit here.

Sparky

P.S. Ain’cha glad I dint toss inna crude joke ‘bout “now I know where th’ PGA got its name frum”, er sumpin’ even worse'n that?

'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.