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(Guest Blog by Soxless)

There were two brothers in my class at school. I shall call them “Con” and “Frank”, because those were their real names. We were clever for our age, and always spelled graffiti correctly, and we also figured out that if “Con” was short for “Constantine”, then “Frank” must have been short for “Frankenstein”.

They had an age difference of 18 months. None of us could figure out why they were in the same class, and they were both evasive when asked. That reticence to speak about their being in the same class was their only common trait. They didn’t look alike; they seemed to have an unusually high number of “uncles”; they didn’t hang out together; they didn’t speak with the same accent, and they were, linguistically, in a different class.

Con was refined, eloquent, and polite. Frank was boorish, rude and profane. Frank was even ruder and profaner than the rest of the class, who were street urchins. Our language may have been in the gutter, but Frank’s was firmly embedded in the sewer. He was so crude that Con often had to “translate” for him. This is a real conversation that happened. I remember it clearly, it happened on the 31st April, twenty years ago to the day.

Frank:  F**king homework.

Con:  Goodness, hasn’t Mr Smith set rather a lot of learning reinforcement for tonight.

Frank:   Smith’s a Ba****d.

Con:  Mr Smith‘s parentage is disputable.

Frank:  That mother-fu**ker Smith gave me detention too.

Con:  Mr Smith has Oedipal tendencies, and administered a rather harsh and unjustified punishment to me.

Frank:  Con, stop using big words or f**k off.

Con:  Frank intimates that I should either refrain from the continual use of words of more than one syllable, or indulge in sexual activity whilst travelling.

Frank:  Con, you are really pis*ing me off now.

Con:  My dear brother is beginning to realise that he is becoming progressively more irate, and that could lead to an incident of incontinence.

Frank:  Don’t be a w**ker.

Con:  Please refrain from indulging in hedonistic, individual, self-pleasure.

Frank:  Holy f**k.

Con:  Immaculate conception.

But what of Con and Frank now? None of us know for sure, but of course there are the usual rumours: the consensus seems to be that Con went on to become a priest in England, and that Frank became a lawyer, and is currently defending Con against scurrilous claims made by one of his ten-year old parishioners.

Soxless is an alien: externally he is a project manager and statistician, while internally his organs are those of a fun-loving writer of comedy. His writing career got off to a flying stop when he was first rejected by Suite101, but he has now written around 100 articles for them. (He got accepted on the second attempt, after reading the application instructions properly). He is the proud owner of one low-mileage wife, and the proud property of two sons, both of whom hope to graduate as delinquents sometime soon.

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(Guest Blog by Mike Reynolds)

Never again will a woman need to stand in front of a mirror changing her hairstyle from bee-hive to bob, or will a man need to strategically place toilet paper on cuts caused by frantic last-minute shaving sessions.

Nowadays, as long as you have opposable thumbs or an application on your phone that will let you type words even if you lack the opposable thumbs, you can be a successful dater.

I may have been one of the last ones who had to meet the people they were dating, or wanted to date, face to face and I remember well the awkward conversations that developed:

“Would you like to go on a date with me Andrea?” I would ask confidently, shifting my eyebrows from side-to-side in a debonair fashion. “I would very much like to spend time in your company, escorting you about town and perhaps beginning what could become a fruitful long-term relationship.”

“Are you serious Mike?” Andrea would reply, causing my eyebrows to cease their twitching. “Jane Austen couldn’t make you sound more ridiculous.”

“I just wanted to know if you wanted to maybe go steady,” I would continue, adjusting my cravat, trying to gain back some of my confidence. “No pressure of course, we would have plenty of time to discuss procreation and all that goes with being in a serious relationship”

“Mike, you sound so stupid and pretentious, why can’t you just say ‘do you wanna get dinner?’” Andrea would continue, taking no note of my fancy raiment.

It was at this point I would get so caught up in emotion that my stoic determination to come away with a dating agreement would turn to porridge.

“I shaved for you today,” I would yell then run away, arms flailing and tears streaming down my shaving induced, bloody, pock-marked face. “And my cravat cost more than your face!” I would yell for good measure.

Now, from the comfort of their toilet, people can type a message to anyone they find remotely attractive and ask ‘doin’ anything?’

In fact, people are now encouraged to say as little as possible. And with social networking being as popular as it is, you need little more than a tenuous connection—say, a friend of someone who knows someone else’s friend’s friend for it to be acceptable to ask them on a date—a far cry from even five years.

Then, approaching a woman with such tenuous ties to your close friend circle was more stalker than socially acceptable. Again, my memories clearly demonstrate my disadvantage.

“Excuse me Diane, would you be interested in going out to get some dinner with me one night?” I asked over the telephone (although still wearing a cravat for confidence).

“Who is this?” she would ask, not recognizing my voice from the time we spoke at a party weeks before.

“This is Mike, we met at Bryan’s party weeks ago,” I would explain.

“No, I don’t think so,” she would continue to deny.

“Sure we did, you told me to stop staring at you,” I’d race to say, hoping she’d catch on.

“Oh right, we were calling you Creep Out so I guess I didn’t put two and two together.”

“Good talking to you again Diane, I’m just going to hang up if that’s ok?” I would ask, tears now dripping onto the cravat.

“Alright Creep Out, say hi to Bryan for me.”

“Sure.”

All in all though, I survived. I’m now married with a child and couldn’t be happier. I’m just saying, it would have been easier if I could have done my work from the bathroom.

Mike Reynolds didn’t date much—he was too busy writing. And not having many friends. He’s always looking for more writing opportunities and always looking for material with humour-me potential.

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(Guest Blog from Soxless)

Having just watched the film “Lost in Translation”, and been numbed by its banality, I really (no, really) want someone to push a long needle through the soft tissue in my neck. It isn’t a death wish; I would just like to know that there is still some sensation left in my body.

The only redeeming feature of this film is that it reminded me of real events when translation really is funny. Some of the “translations” are literal, and others a bit more lateral, but this note will be my protest at the critics’ positive views of the drivel that I have just been subjected to.

As a young engineer, who spoke no German, I was working on a technical translation with Mel. She was fluent in German but spoke no engineering. Together we were tasked with translating a German technical manual. Some of the German phrases didn’t lend themselves to direct translation, like “Dimensions without engagement”.

Between us, we managed to guess (correctly) that this means “dimensions not binding”. One phrase that caused a problem was tougher to work out. The speed of a conveyer was controlled by a “water-operated sheep”. Now there was a test! It turned out that the conveyor was not driven by farmyard beasts, but by a “hydraulic ram”.

There is generally a lack of directness between people, especially here in the Western European islands (that’s Ireland and Great Britain). Avoiding direct talk by translating it into a “softer” phrase even has its own noun, “euphemism”.

For example, let me translate the word “joyrider”: a thief who takes your car, drives it more quickly than he is able to handle, crashes it, then makes a claim on your insurance for “trauma”, and then hurts an innocent bystander who also claims off your insurance.

The legal system, ironically, is awash with these “soft” phrases. When a judge hears two opposing accounts, and tells one witness “I prefer the version of events given by the other witness”, what he really means is “you are a lying xxxxxxx!”.

Let me translate “xxxxxxx”: not only were your parents not married, but it is highly unlikely that your mother even knows who your father actually is.

Soxless is an alien: externally he is a project manager and statistician, while internally his organs are those of a fun-loving writer of comedy. His writing career got off to a flying stop when he was first rejected by Suite101, but he has now written around 100 articles for them. (He got accepted on the second attempt, after reading the application instructions properly). He is the proud owner of one low-mileage wife, and the proud property of two sons, both of whom hope to graduate as delinquents sometime soon.

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(Guest Blog from Christopher Reilly)

In today’s hurly-burly world of the Internet, instant messaging, Skype, chat, and the ubiquitous e-mail, one method of communication still brings feelings of warmth and genuine appreciation to the lucky recipient, and that is a well-written thank you letter. Grandmothers covet them, friends love them, and business associates will be impressed with your excessive brown nosing.

One handicap to today’s would-be writers is their crushing ignorance. No worries. I’m here to show you how to compose the perfect thank-you with this simple, 5-part guide to the Art of Writing Thank You Letters.

The Greeting or Salutation

“Dear Jim and Gina…” This classic greeting has gotten a little stale. Instead, use their cutesy nicknames, especially nicknames uttered behind their backs. Example:

“Dear Zipper Boy and Squid…” You’ve gotten their attention and spoken to them on a personal, superior level. They’ll love it.

Express Your Gratitude

Here you will thank them for the gift and say how much it means to you. Remember that there is no reason to lie or make things up. You can always find something to see in a positive light. Example:

“It was so nice of you to make me stay at your house during my recent trip. When I walked in and saw you two for the first time in many years, I was gobsmacked at your appearance. Stunned really. You looked like…survivors. It warmed my heart to know you were hanging in there, just getting by. That’s chutzpah!

How do you stay so thin, Jim? I could see your skeleton. Remarkable, considering your age. Are you involved with a religious cult?

Gina, your love for animals shines from you like a beacon. It must be your letting the dogs hump your legs for hours. (ha ha) By the way, there are people who will come to your house and pick up that stuff from the back yard. Might want to have them take a quick run through the house too. LOL.”

Discuss Use of Gift

Here you’ll discuss how the gift or service benefited you and improved or affected your life.

“I really got a thrill staying at your home. The thrill of imminent danger, you know? It truly infected me. The doctor says it’s nothing that a month in the hospital can’t cure! (Just kidding!) My visit made me realize how good I’ve got it, and you’ve inspired me to see a dentist for the first time in years. What shade of yellow was that? (ROFL)

Mention Past and Future

“By the way, Jim, your mother kicked the bucket last week. I heard she’s leaving everything to the cat. There goes your future.”

Closing

“Thanks again, I guess. When I got home, I thought,  That’s the last time I’ll ever see THEM.

Your acquaintance,

Jim”

Sign it, send it, and you’ll feel great, and you’ll be helping to revive the dying Art of Writing Thank You Letters.

(Christopher Reilly’s witty words have graced National Public Radio, Stage Plays, Award-Winning Corporate Films, and are running rampant across the wild Internet with very little supervision. Many of the words find themselves on the pages of his popular blog, The Crusty Curmudgeon (thecrustycurmudgeon.com). He writes about anything he finds peculiar or odd, which accounts for his relationships with the opposite sex.)

Footnote: Thinking of using Christopher for your project?  Be warned – he rocks. We’ve availed of his services ourselves and have found him a consummate professional who is  attentive to his clients’ needs. He gets the brief, runs with it and delivers on time.  It is a total pleasure to collaborate with this guy.

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(Guest Blog Post by Brenna Hillier)

I will tell you why I quit my well-paid, low effort, guaranteed-future office job for the glamorous lifestyle of a bum. I quit because of Mrs. Scerrick.

Mrs. Scerrick didn’t have a tongue like a lash. A lash is not hardcore enough for Mrs. Scerrick. If she wields any kind of weapon with her oral parts, it is an iron flail, probably with ground glass glued on; both for an attractive glittering quality and to rip your flesh open to the very bone.

Mrs. Scerrick worked in Human Resources. Human Resources has to be the definition of a misnomer. Human Resources are the people that fire you in order to pay for a foosball table for the executive lounge. They refuse your request for leave to go to your wife’s funeral because you took a sick day on a Monday in 1992. They pass you over for promotion in favour of a bloke who spends three quarters of the day on the phone to his girlfriend in Mesopotamia because his name is more memorable than yours. They are not human. They do not relate to humans. God forbid they have, you know, relations with human beings, for the resulting spawn would be most unholy.

I was always under her eye because I was unlucky enough to be the only woman under forty in an office otherwise composed entirely of pale, blinking men and menopausal tyrants. I stuck out like a sore thumb because I didn’t look like a sore thumb, either due to the sprain-like angle of a World-of-Warcraft posture or a thumb-like middle aged spread of stomach towards bosom and vice versa.

I think Mrs. Scerrick felt I didn’t belong in this department. I agreed. I didn’t. I was capable of normal human emotion. I should have been transferred somewhere less soul destroying, like Sales, or Accounts, where they only chew on your soul, not actually digest it and have mud-slinging fights with the resulting fecal matter.

Whatever the reason, and I suspect it was simply that I was not interchangeable with a dozen office mates, she singled me out the feel the full weight of HR’s power.

HR do have power, you know, because they have a lot of bits of paper. As far as I can work out, they spend their time sitting around in meetings and congratulating each other on writing impossible goals down on bits of paper. Then they title these bits of paper “employee assessment guidelines” or “company policy” and suddenly someone is asking you why you went to the toilet when it was not a designated break time, and why it took you fourteen seconds longer than the allotted seventy three seconds.

What finally broke me was the day she caught me at the water cooler, where I was drinking a cup of water. She appeared beside me as suddenly and menacingly as a spyware pop-up advertising outrageous sex acts and the fact that your five thousand dollar computer just turned into an expensive doorstop.

“Are you on a break?” she demanded, and before I could reply, continued, “Because I see on your schedule that your break runs from three-fifteen to three-twenty-five, and it is now three-forty.”

“I had a meeting at three fifteen,” I explained, and when this did nothing to quell the hellfire blazing behind her contact lenses, added, “With HR. So I started my break as soon as I got back. That was about three minutes ago.”

The hellfire continued to burn, perhaps even to increase in intensity, so I went on adding further short clauses to my excuse, hoping that one of them would do the job.

“Urm. I checked the schedule. Nobody else is on break. I made sure. I asked my team leader. I asked at the meeting. The meeting was with HR,” I said again. “About my performance. It was fine. All the right boxes. Ticked. Everything.”

Have you ever seen Aladdin? Isn’t there a bit where there’s some sort of giant snake arching over its prey? This was much like that. My knees had been slowly collapsing throughout, and my arms had independently drawn closer to my chest like hamster paws. She, on the other hand, had brought her face closer and closer in pursuit of mine, with the effect that she was now hovering over my crouched form, poised to strike.

“Are you aware,” she actually hissed, flecks of spittle hitting my face, “that you are drinking that water on company time? I ask you, is it actually necessary to drink water?”

I squeaked. I fled. Or rather, I scuttled. And the next day, I quit. Because the awful truth had been revealed to me. With her profound ignorance of human needs, she had let the cat out of the bag: HR was staffed by aliens. I was getting out before they decided to shut off the unnecessary oxygen.

(We rarely let Brenna Hillier appear in public because her tinfoil hat frightens horses, but when she emerges, she usually twitches. She will write on anything given half a chance and a permanent marker, especially blogs, news feeds, tweets and stainless steel fridges.)

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You’ll forgive the formality of this form letter, but my needs are specific and, as such, I will be reviewing the responses of several mortuaries.

I suppose that some sort of dress code is as good a place to start as any. Suits and ties for the men. No bow ties, unless they wear one all the time (their business associates should be able to confirm if this is true). The absolute worst scenario would be if someone smuggled a spinning bow tie into what should be a solemn occasion.

As for the ladies, I think black dresses. I like those black veils, too. They’re kind of sexy in a grieving sort of way. I can be flexible on the hem length depending on the season. No tube tops, though, no matter how hot it is, and no stripper shoes, unless the griever is actually a stripper and just getting off her shift.

Body viewings make people hungry, so a spread of cold cuts with cheese would be nice. But don’t let anyone make a plate and bring it up with them while they’re viewing me. In fact, I’d like a sneeze guard installed. Station an attendant nearby with some paper towels to discreetly Windex as necessary.

Speaking of the coffin, I’m thinking something traditional, like solid gold with elephant ivory handles. If somebody remarks that elephants are endangered, look disappointed in them and say, “He’s dead, man.”

The prep of my body is important, because it will determine everyone’s last thoughts about how handsome I am. I would like to have a slight smile, but not so much that it appears like I’m bragging that I’m dead and they still have to go through some horrible disease. And don’t make me wear the jersey of my favorite team or put any of their stupid paraphernalia in with me—they had their chance to win while I was alive. If I need a haircut, this is not the time to go for a new “look.”

Some people may want to touch me. Please shake up one of those hand warmers and wrap my hands around it so that they’re creeped out if they do. Don’t get ambitious and install a spring mechanism that makes me grab someone and not let go. Just the hand warmer.

Nobody in my family should perform the eulogy, because that would make it look like I don’t have friends. And no friends should do it, either, because I owe most of them money, and they might make a joke about it. Instead, hire an extremely attractive model no one knows. Everyone will wonder who this “mystery woman” is. Introduce her (mumble the name so it can’t be Googled) and when she’s in front of the gathered throng, she should shakily unwrap her “speech,” and then, before she starts, break down. Then get her out of there, fast.

If Mike Ditka is still alive, I’d like him to do a brief walk-through while muttering under his breath, “best ballplayer I ever saw.” If Ditka isn’t available, then Simon Cowell (“best singer”). But no autographs. Whose day is this, anyway?

The music should be heart-wrenching and despairing but hopeful. I’ve attached lyrics for a song I’ve written entitled, “How Will We Ever Do Anything Without You?” Please get Sheryl Crow to arrange and sing it. Don’t scrimp and get a Sheryl Crow look-alike, because people can tell.

Obviously, none of this will be free, which is why I’ve attached a list of friends who I don’t think I owe quite as much money to. Tell them I was just mentioning how much I liked them when I started to cough and stop breathing.

I look forward to your prompt response.

Bob Merlotti

Bob Merlotti is neither old nor sick, just planning ahead. He has written award-winning comedy for years and has won every major advertising award, including a few he has smelted himself. Visit his website at www.merlotticommabob.com and be sure to click on the black light. Why? Because it’ll blow your mind, that’s why.

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Guest Blog courtesy of Christina-Marie Wright (aka The Gonzo Mama)

Let’s admit it ladies – hair removal is no fun. I’m not even talking about our “down THERE hair…” I’m just talking about our legs. If you’re like me, you routinely find yourself in the shower, one leg propped up on the edge of the tub, with a deadly weapon in your hand, thinking: There must be a better way.

If there is a better way, I haven’t found it yet.

Sure, a myriad of products have promised to make my shaving woes a thing of the past, but seriously, it’s just propaganda. By propaganda, I mean villainous lies of Hitler’s Third Reich caliber – an organized campaign to promote the suffering of women throughout the world.

Consider the original Epilady. Do you remember that little coiled device of demonic origin? The coils were supposed to painlessly remove hair at the root as the unwitting user stroked it over her leg. If you missed the fun, let me boil down the net effect for you: The only way it could have been more painful would have required using red-hot coils from a toaster oven.

How about depilatories like Nair or Neet? I have been documented to have perhaps the most sensitive skin in the known universe. Nonetheless, I bravely decided to try such a product about three years ago. I am happy to report that the depilatory did, indeed, remove the hair from my legs, along with three layers of dermatological tissue. I am equally happy to report, today, that the skin grafts are hardly noticeable anymore.

Hot wax? Ouch. Cold wax? I tried it, using a do-it-your-damn-self home kit. I never did figure out how the wax could remove the hair from my legs, since I couldn’t remove the wax from my legs in the first place. It kept melting into a sticky, sap-like coating on my skin and never set up. I tried using a damp cloth to rub it off. I added soap. I soaked in a bubble bath. No luck. For a week, I had legs that doubled as fly strips.

Why do we subject ourselves to these inconvenient – and often painful – rituals, ladies? Why? Would it really be so bad to just… go for a “natural” look? Revolt, I say! Rebel, I urge you! Let your leg hair sprout. Encourage its growth by taking vitamins. Cultivate a shiny, healthy leg of hair!

Think about it! Did Eve have a razor in the Garden of Eden? Dare I suggest that Cleopatra may not have shaved her legs? (Well, okay, she was the self-proclaimed “king” of Egypt, but a rumored lusty lady nonetheless, who had no trouble attracting powerful men.) Joan of Arc was a badass. Do you really think, on her way to the battle, she was thinking about the stubble on her stems?

I don’t think so. Nor will I be stressing over my unshaved gams as I head to battle the oppressive laundry dictator.

Christina-Marie Wright is the mother of seven children and author of The Gonzo Mama newspaper column (TheGonzoMama.com), where she chronicles her adventures in “extreme parenting.” Wright specializes in parenting humor, political satire and cuttingly honest confessions about being a woman. Sadly, she still shaves her legs every single day.

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(Unless of Course They Don’t Win)

Guest Blog courtesy of Mike Reynolds

The pending arrival of the Olympics in Canada and our country’s subsequent success or failure has become all-consuming. Not just for me, but for every single one of us igloo-living, plaid shirt wearing Canadians.

It really should come as no surprise that come winter Olympic time, we all start to care about sports most of us have never heard of and that in a month, we will mostly forget exist.

We glue our eyes to the television screen as two men lie atop one another and fly screaming down an icy maze on a sled that doesn’t look sturdy enough to safely carry a twenty-pound beaver.

We watch with tears of pride in our eyes as human beings with the ability to turn off the sanity portion of their brain, willingly throw themselves hundreds of feet into the air on a pair of skis without a safety net, hoping they land safely, but still silently wanting to see a dramatic crash.

But most importantly, to Canadians at least, we sit in our luckiest chairs to watch grown men strap on armour and then skate about an ice rink, punishing a small piece of rubber with wooden sticks.

Hockey.

We’re crazy for it and might be the only ones in the world that are. If you live outside of Canada, chances are you at best have a casual, don’t need to know more about this sport, or an I know some National Hockey League teams and their uniforms are ugly kind of relationship with our national pastime. Here, we question the existence of God if even our local beer league team doesn’t win their midnight game against the neighbouring blue collared gentlemen.

So imagine what we’re like come Olympic time when our supposed ‘best’ come together to lace up the skates and take on the world.

We’re sick. We’re all losing weight as the first faceoff nears because we’re so nervous. As badly as we all want to see the outcome, we’re afraid to actually watch. As the NHL readies itself for the Olympic break, we pray that our Canadian boys get pulled from the lineup for fear they might take a puck to the ear or a stick to the nether regions.

We can’t lose to the Swedes, and we can’t lose to the Finns. God forbid we lose to the Americans, and our country will literally blow itself up if we come out on the wrong end against the Russians.

As hockey-friendly as these countries might be, their athletes haven’t nearly the same pressure put on them to return home with a gold medal around their neck or to not return at all.

I’m no different from my fellow Canadians. In fact, love hockey more than most. I have extra stores of spray paint and dog poop at the ready to redecorate the homes of our hockey heroes just in case the impossible happens and they let us down.

When it comes to hockey, it’s simply not enough to ‘give it your all,’ or ‘to leave it all on the ice.’ They’re heroes to us all, unless of course they happen to leave the gold medal in the hands of the Russians. In which case, they had better give it some thought on whether or not to change nationalities.

(Mike Reynolds is a writer from Ottawa who is well-known for writing in his sleep. Well-known that is by his wife and baby. He’s always looking for more writing opportunities and always looking for material with humour-me potential.)

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By Joe Donnellan

Having spent two weeks in Boston with my girlfriend over Christmas, I feel that I should share one of my experiences with you, one of my wholesome, family-friendly, non-sexual experiences. I had never been skiing before and foolishly believed myself to be the next *insert famous skier’s name here*. We gathered all our gear together (i.e. cash ) and headed off to an out-of-the-way ski resort where 4 year olds are taught how to ski.

The slopes were less than daunting and moods were high as we set off to rent our skis and whatnot. It was only when putting on the boots that I realised the first problem. I couldn’t stay upright – and this was before I attached the skis or tried to hold my poles. It is one of my deep regrets that we didn’t, at this point, take some pictures before my spirit was not only broken, but dismembered and left holding its guts as it bled to death on the crisp, pure snow on the incline.

My boots were sore to have on in the first place so no time was wasted. Straight up the conveyor belt and when I reached the top I turned around to go down the hill. Christina was struggling to keep herself from going sideways as I hared off downhill at break neck speed. I was really getting a feel for this skiing thing until it dawned on me that in all the time I was there, I never thought to figure out even the blueprints of an idea as to how to stop myself from hurtling into the almost perfectly laid out 10-pin children at the bottom of the hill, through the fence behind them and sprawl myself on the bonnet of the rather expensive-looking car that the rather burly-looking gentleman was taking great care to lock.

I tried to stick my poles in the ground. No success. I tried to stick my poles in the ground again. Astonishingly, still no success. In the midst of an all out panic attack which threatened to consume me, I had a moment of immense calm, where I inhaled deeply and everything seemed to become slow motion.

It became embarrassingly apparent in that instant what I needed to do and I was bewildered as to why I had not thought of it earlier. I threw myself to the ground with all the zest of a 15 year old who was after drinking his first 7 cans of cider, and I closed my eyes. I prayed to the God that I don’t believe in to let me stop on time. I bargained with him. I swore all forms of good deeds and prayers in his name if I could just stop on time. I did. Thank you God but I’m not following through on any of those promises.

My next major problem was that I had just embarrassed myself in front of my girlfriend – who had been skiing before so she was going to be good. I stood up and turned around just on time to see her ski face first into a tree over the opposite side of the slope from where we started. We both agreed never to discuss our skiing adventure in each others presence again. Needless to say we both left the slopes quite Piste off with the whole experience.

(Joe Donnellan is a witty blogger who can find humor in any situation and is willing to give most opportunities a trial (within reason). He also really likes waffles. If you would like Joe to fix you a piece of his funny blog, get in touch.)

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Guest Blog Courtesy of Tony Goriainoff

(Tony Goriainoff is a financial journalist working in Europe, originally from Texas. He is available to do freelance work most of the year (except when he is on vacation, which is not often enough). His favorite topics are things like culture, politics, art, music and life & relationships in general.)

“Outside” is different

What does this normally mean? Well, for starters, it means that everywhere you go, it is going to be different. Different? You may say, But of course!

Well Little Miss Smart Ass, you don’t know different until you see a French toilet up close and personal. Or until you enter a rest area on a British highway and marvel at the dried up and insipid food. You never knew sausages could taste like rope did you?

Yes, forget America’s obsession with hygiene and smells and get ready to enter the smelly world waiting for you just outside your local international airport terminal.

The planet is different from us. Not better or worse just different, and I suggest you strap yourself tightly, darling, because the great “unknown” just beyond our borders is going to smack you in the face like a wet fish and no, it won’t say sorry afterwards.

Start with Europe, one of our acknowledged cultural homelands (for what else is our country but an amalgamation of XVIII European Enlightenment thoughts and ideas sprinkled here and there with some good old fashioned social and religious persecution and a shameless excuse for slavery and world domination?).

Europeans feel superior to us. No, I can’t explain it. They just do. It does not matter that we tend to earn more, have bigger and longer hair, that our waistlines are expanding like mount Krakatoa on acid, or that we live in larger homes. It does not matter that the price we pay for gas is half of what they pay, or that anything the Japanese invent, we get first.

It goes beyond that.

Europeans have a certain knack for keeping old things around which we either lost along the way, or, quite frankly, never acquired. And yes, we must admit, that is why we go to Europe.

No one in their right mind travels seven hours from JFK to stare at London’s Canary Wharf, or eight hours to be marvelled by La Defense, in Paris.

No.

We jump into those flying tubes to get what we don’t get in America: old stuff. Sometimes, very old stuff. In the case of Greece and Italy, even ancient stuff.

And here’s where their dislike of us begins. Once, in Southern Spain, I overheard a group of American teenagers as they were being addressed by their tour guide.

“We will visit the Roman ruins of Italica”, she said.

And what did Miss Blonde Bimbo say to her friend within earshot of yours truly?

“Oh, we have those back home, how boring”.

In case you are wondering, la Bimbona was from Texas.

The tour guide overheard her and started to laugh when she glanced over towards the airhead section of the group and saw me trying to gnaw my veins off in disgust.

Europeans, I must confess, don’t hate Americans, they just hate stupid people.

Unfortunately for us, we do have an inordinate amount of those within our borders. Sometimes they even make it into the White House, so imagine how superior Europeans feel!

In Europe you will find old everything: homes, cars, clothes, people, museums, streets, jewels, neighborhoods, cities, bridges, and, interestingly, customs.

Europeans like their tradition even more than we do, the difference being that they have so much of it!

Like their tradition of keeping poor people poor. An age old tradition that one. Why help the poor better their lot in life when they will only multiply and produce more smelly poor people? Like I always say, you can’t rape the willing!

Harsh, but very much how many European governments treat their population, and they then, in turn, say things like “please Sir, can I have some more?”

Unless they are Scandinavian. These are probably the only countries on Earth which have worked tirelessly to ensure everyone is middle class, and poor at the same time.

Poor? You may ask. But I heard they have a great social system!

Indeed they do. Everything is paid for…out of their salary. What is the point of earning 60K when half (or more) of it is going to the State? So ok, they are not exactly Brokeback Mountain poor, but they are sort of lower middle class on state aid poor… ish.

But they drive Saabs and Volvos! You say. Yes, but they tend to be cheaper there. And subsidised.

Unlike their alcohol, which is taxed to death and controlled unlike in any other place on this planet.

Which explains why Scandinavians like to visit Southern Europe so much: booze is cheaper there, and like the Vikings they really are at heart, they love nothing more than getting wasted on a Mediterranean beach after (or even whilst) “fertilizing” a local lovely.

Ah…Europe…so civilized…and yet…so not!

Like I said at the beginning, “outside” is different. Be prepared, yes, but bear in mind that our way is not the only way, nor the best way.

You really haven’t lived until you’ve Frenched a drunken Adonis on a Mediterranean beach under a star lit sky with Europop blaring nearby. Or until you discover what a foreskin is. You thought you had, but I assure you, you haven’t.

Pack your bags my lovely, it is going to be a bumpy, yet thrilling, ride!

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