Things that are difficult to say when you’re drunk:

a) Innovative
b) Preliminary
c) Proliferation
d) Cinnamon

Things that are VERY difficult to say when you’re drunk:
a) Specificity
b) British Constitution
c) Passive-aggressive disorder
d) Transubstantiate

Things that are ABSOLUTELY IMPOSSIBLE to say when you’re drunk:
a) Thanks, but I don’t want to sleep with you.
b) Nope, no more booze for me.
c) Sorry, but you’re not really my type.
d) No kebab for me, thank you.
e) Good evening officer, isn’t it lovely out tonight?
f) I’m not interested in fighting you.
g) Oh, I just couldn’t - no one wants to hear me sing.
h) Thank you, but I won’t make any attempt to dance, I have no co-ordination. I’d hate to look like a fool.
i) Where is the nearest toilet? I refuse to vomit in the s treet.
j) I must be going home now as I have work in the morning.

Johnny was working at the fish plant in Newfoundland, when he accidentally cut off all ten of his fingers. He went to the emergency room in St. John’s. When he got there the doctor looked at Johnny and said “Let’s have da fingers and I’ll see what I can do.”

Johnny said, “I haven’t got da fingers.”

“What do you mean, you haven’t got da fingers?” shrieked the doctor. “Lord t’undrin Jesus it’s 2008! We’ve got microsurgery and all kinds of incredible techniques. I could have put dem back on and made you like new! Why didn’t you bring da fingers?”

(Are you ready for this?????)

Johnny says… “How da f?#k was I supposed to pick dem up??”

(Thanks Melissa!)

This is funny stuff!

My wife’s Uncle Charle passed away last evening. He was only 68.

God bless you, Charle. You are loved and you will be missed.

Rest in peace.

Well… 41 years old today. Every day is a new experience. I’ve never been this old. My birthday gift to you all is a story of birthdays past.

Six or seven years ago, my birthday was like any other day. By any other day, I mean nobody said “Hey! Happy Birthday!” The morning came and went. Got ready for work, went to work, had lunch. Nothing. Neither my wife nor son remembered the big day. I was actually kind of enjoying it, really. I thought I was chalking up a little piece of emotional blackmail to place on my side of the scales that are already weighed heavily in my wife’s favour. After work, I brought my wife to a hair appointment and returned to the house, awaiting her phone call for me to come pick her up.

When my son and I got home, he went outside to play and I sat and watched TV. Suddenly the door burst open. “Dad! Dad! Look outside! At that house down there! There’s a guy dressed up like Mickey Mouse delivering a bunch of balloons! It must be somebody’s birthday!” He went back outside, door slamming behind him. “Yes, buddy. I must be someone’s birthday.”

The phone rang. It was Donna. “Can you come pick me up?” I called out to Garrett and we drove across town to pick up Donna. When we got there, Garrett went inside to wait with his Mom and I waited in the van. I was parked nose in to the storefront. I could see the front cash directly in front of me. A few minutes after getting there, Donna appeared at that front cash with the lady who did her hair. They were ringing up the sale. Donna whipped out the VISA card and was signing the receipt when she eyed the date on the piece of paper. She got this horrified look on her face, looked straight ahead, and then slowly turned her head toward me. Clearly embarrassed, she mouthed the words “Happy Birthday”. I smiled broadly and mouthed “Thank you” right back.

She and Garrett came out and she stammered how sorry she was and that we had to do something for my birthday. I said it was no big deal, not to worry about it. But she insisted we go out for supper. So, off to Pizza Delight.

We got there, all smiles, and were escorted to our table. Donna occasionally muttered “I’m so sorry” as we walked over and sat down. The waitress came over and we ordered pizza. Just as the waitress walked away, Donna looked at me and said “I don’t feel very well. Really. I think I’m gonna be sick. You and Garrett stay here and eat…. do you mind if I wait for you in the van?” No problem, I said. And off she went. Garrett, who was about 9 at the time, was fidgety and sensed his Mom wasn’t well. “Can I go out with her?” Sure, I said.

I looked around the restaurant. All eyes were glaring at me. They all saw the three of us walk in. Some of them probably heard Donna say “I’m sorry”. They saw us whisper to each other, and then they saw Donna leave with a distressed look on her face, immediately followed by our son. I could read their expressions…. “You bastard! What did you say to them, you sumbitch?”

The waitress showed up with the pizza and looked at the empty seats. I asked her to box it up so I could take it with me. Her mouth said “No problem sir.” but her eyes said “You bastard! What did you say to them, you sumbitch?”

I hung my head and left. Happy Birthday, Stevie-boy, Happy Birthday.

I’ve written several posts over the years using the word “Newfie” as it refers to Newfoundlanders. Last week, one of those posts, written back in September 2005 (originally on my Blogger site and later transferred to this one when I bought my own domain) was found by someone who enjoyed it enough to leave me a comment relaying her own story which was similar to mine. Essentially, I had run into a person who was perplexed that I had referred to myself as a “Newfie”. She apparently had not associated the term as meaning “someone from Newfoundland”. She had grown up associating the term to mean “stupid”.

Ignorance is bliss, huh?

Well, you know how the thought process works, eh? You think about one thing, see something or hear something and then the synapses in your brain fire up and across and whatever else synapses do. Soon, you find yourself thinking about things you hadn’t thought of in years. Perhaps your conversations lean toward your newly discovered thoughts. My conversations did. I talked to those around me about someone finding such an old post and about the use of the word that, while so many use it to refer to themselves, could be used in hurtful and demeaning ways. My re-introduction to this word stirred memories of a “This Hour Has 22 Minutes” skit that made drew parallels to another “N” word as it poked fun of Michael Richards’ tirade on a comedy stage and his subsequent apology. In many ways, while usually not as harshly intended nor deeply wounding, the two words bring forth similar feelings and social consequences.

In true 22 Minutes style, they made the point very well, possibly seeing through Mr. Richards’ apology, and was hilarious in doing so. Here it is:

I try to avoid using the word now.