For years now I've heard the rumour that you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Well, after a long time of blindly accepting that statement as fact, I decided to find out for myself. Step 1: find an old dog. Well, after many a lonely Friday night driving up and down the lanes - check! Step 2: learn some new tricks. I dedicated Saturday mornings for a month, practicing and practicing until finally I mastered a wide array of new tricks all the while having to hear the moaning and whimpering of that old dog in the next room - check! Step 3 (the easy one): teach said dog the new-found tricks. Initially, to my surprise, this was very challenging both because of his obvious lack of interest and energy and my being saddled with my unrealistic expectations. Plus I had already printed and distributed posters around the neighbourhood announcing our triumphant debut show. Failure was not an option - or else I'd always be known as that guy who bragged to everyone about his old-dog-trick-teaching ability and couldn't even teach the dog one single, simple trick - while that would be true, it is just far too long and cumbersome a name to be known by and I would have never been able to show my face in certain circles again (not sure which ones or where they are located, but just knowing it would make me unhappy and always on edge). I'll be honest, there were many times I considered just scrapping the plans and either finding a new dog (especially one who seemed to have a certain proclivity for tricks) or reverting back to some old, tried and true tricks or leaving town on the next train (do people still escape that way?). To make a long story short, tricks were learned and life was never quite the same afterwards.
People are worried that I'm like a wolf in sheep's clothing and I'm not sure how to take that. I will admit that in many ways I am quite wolf-like, what with the sharp claws, the insatiable appetite, the conniving and cunning approach to life, and my love of howling and all howling related activities. And I will also come clean about my love for clothing made out of sheep's wool - it is dazzlingly white, fluffy and comfy beyond belief, a big step-up from the old clothes I used to slum around in back in the day. Those sheep's clothes make me feel like a part of an elite, sheep-clothing-wearing club that dominates the social scene and is the talk of the town. I am told it is wrong for some reason to be wolf-life and to wear the clothing I love, and if others continue to talk about me behind my back in this way, I will be forced to sneak up on them all innocent like and then potentially maul them. I mean if I am being called a wolf I may as well play the part. They've been warned.
When I was young my mother used to tell me to count sheep to fall asleep. Many a night, I lay there in my bed trying to settle down and sleep and those mindlessly jumping sheep were there to help. Sometimes, in my waking and more lucid hours, I would wonder why the sheep were continuously jumping over the same fence. Where were they coming from and where were they going to? Did they enjoy jumping or would they have been equally satisfied walking around the fence if they could have located the gate? Did they feel a certain safety in numbers, as there seemed to be a lot of sheep going to the same unknown destination or did they just have a hard time limiting the guest list and leaving certain sheep out? And why were they always smiling while they jumped rhythmically - did they just love a great tune, really enjoy the exercise as it did wonders for their abs, or, as I suspected as a child, did they know a secret they just weren't sharing? Almost like "we know where we are going and why we are jumping and why we are smiling, but we aren't telling you, little boy. So just head off to sleep already, so we can stop smiling and jumping and head off to the adult sheep party we have planned." I know my mother was aware of my concerns when she her me mutter my wish before blowing out my candles on my 9th birthday - "just once I want to be invited to a private sheep function", which, even for me, was a fairly odd thing to say.
I am often told that I am as blind as a bat. Me as blind as a bat? I wish! Those bats are so cool and fresh and now. They are all like some birds who got done amped up with their funk to scary levels no one has eva seen. Bats dart this way and that way all about their crib and they take nothing from nobody. Are they blind? True dat. Do they care? What do you think sucker? They are taking the blind train to awesome town and you can't even afford a ticket! You hear that? That's what I thought. Bats don't care and they gots styles.They are far too busy flying around, eating fruit and stuff and are taking names (and occasionally napping). Youse best be steering clear of those blind, majestic kings and queens of the caves or if you can't, at least duck as they can't see where they are going and they will probably scratch you something good. But don't feel sorry for them, they ain't watching that show. And neither am I! Why am I told that I am blind as a bat? Not totally sure, haven't given it much thought, to tell you the truth....(actually just did some research and I found out that bats aren't blind at all...that's right they did that too.)
I am trying to laugh like a hyena. I am also trying to walk like a hyena, hunt for food like a hyena, socialize like a hyena and scavenge like a hyena. Essentially, I am trying to be as hyena like as possible. I promised my father I would, and no matter how many times he tried to talk me out of it, I am a man (until the transformation is complete) of my word.
"Oh bee's knees!" my grandmother used to exclaim about nothing in particular. She was like that, if you know what I mean. When dinner turned out great, it was the bee's knees. When a movie had a great twist at the end, it was the bee's knees. If she slipped and fell she'd say bee's knees. When she carefully dissected a large number of actual bees attempting to find the knees, she was sadly disappointed and not even my Charlie Chaplin-esque humour could cheer her up.
I often escape to this place inside where I am the messenger who has been given the important task of sending the life-or-death message to the king. I race against time on horseback through the overgrown forest. Upon my arrival a hush falls upon the castle and I approach the king and queen cautiously. I unfurl my scroll and take a deep breath knowing that so many lives depend not only on the message itself, but also on the eloquence of my delivery. I wet my lips, clear my throat and I squeal like a pig. After a moment's silence, the gathered crowd cheers riotously.
I've decided to come out of the closet. Not that closet! (at least not today -the sliding doors are stuck) No, the other one. I will admit that I've enjoyed my two day holiday in the closet. It was a bit dark and fairly cramped, but at the same time very invigorating. Anyways, I am coming out to let the awaiting public know that it is true- I aspire to be a monkey's uncle. After almost no thought at all, here is what I think I need to do. Book the next flight out of here and head straight to the Democratic Republic of Congo or the Republic of Congo (if I can handle the lack of any democracy or the sole reliance on a pure republic for a few weeks). Once there, spend some time eating the food, becoming one with the people and soaking up the sun. After some time, rent a jeep and take a drive out to the jungle and find a pack of monkeys who seem amenable to my presence. Watch from a far for a week and then slowly and incrementally start participating in monkey rites and rituals and cultural events. Now the next part I'm a little unsure, but I am hoping that one particular female monkey will stand out and catch my eye. If not, I'll have to take a sizable leap of faith and pick one randomly. The key aspect is that she has a brother or sister with a child as I've put in all of this time and effort, not to speak of the multitude of diseases and skin ailments I've subjected myself too, just to be a monkey's uncle. And keep in mind I am only needing to marry a monkey, nothing too weird sicko, and marry her I will. It will be a fairly extravagant wedding, at least from the monkey community's point-of-view. Afterward we return from our honeymoon, I will begin the challenging task of earning my new niece or nephew's trust and love. If not, I'll just fly home and continue my life's work: sketching pictures of cute kittens wearing adorable mittens.
I only cry crocodile tears. Especially when you make me so sad. Why you need to do it, I'll never know. Possibly it is your deep-found respect for crocodiles.
My friends are always referring to me as a dinosaur. Well, initially that got my back up and made me pretty annoyed and pissed off. A dinosaur?!?! Like I'm that old and obsolete? And some of them are older and arguably more obsolete than I am! But then I started to think, maybe being called a dinosaur isn't so bad. Yeah, maybe dinosaurs worked hard everyday to put food on the table (rock? ground?) for their family, and maybe dinosaurs were caring and sensitive "modern" animals who eschewed outdated gender stereotypes and maybe dinosaurs loved spending their free time exercising both their minds and their bodies constantly attempting to better themselves. Well then maybe, just maybe, I am a dinosaur. And proud of it. And if those friends keep calling me that then I'll either eat them (if I am a carnivore) or squash them (if I am a herbivore) or play with them (if I need a friend).
I have been told for years now that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Despite my many attempts, I have no idea at all what this means! When will I ever have a bird in my hand? I mean, unless it is dead and then what sort of weirdo am I? Killing birds only to walk around with their decaying carcasses in my hand!?!? Am I trying to become significantly more unpopular and smelly? Okay, so let's say I could obtain or procure said bird and let's just say, for argument's sake, that the bird is still alive and came to rest on my hand on its own volition. How? Well...maybe I developed a new, irresistible bird seed that birds from far and wide flock to. What? It's possible. You have no idea if I have been revising a bird seed formula for years now or not. Anyways - I now have the bird in my hand and we are parading around town. In my dreams, this is a truly majestic bird with amazingly colourful feathers and it draws the high regard of all passersby. But somehow, this bird in my hand is worth two in a bush? What?!?!? How is that possible? There is just no way a bird that I somehow "convinced" to be in my hand is equivalent in value to two random birds in a bush! I mean what are the birds doing in the bush that is making anyone else's life demonstratively better in any way?!?! Sure they may be attractive and make lovely cheeps and chirps for me to wake up to on spring mornings, but unless those birds are able to complete all of my yard work in a timely fashion and pick little bugs out of my hair without making my scalp bloody it sounds like a wash to me at best.
When I was 21 I was nearly badgered to death. Even telling this story now brings me close to tears. I was camping alone in the woods and came across a friendly clan of badgers. I'm not sure how it happened, but after a short while, we learned to communicate with each other and soon afterwards, truly understood each other's hopes and wishes and feelings. The two weeks I spent with those badgers were one of the highlights of my life - a time I really felt loved and a truly accepted part of a group. Things couldn't have been better and if I wasn't due back at university for the start of the next semester I could have seen myself staying. On the final day, all of us were growing emotional and sensing the impact of my leaving. I'm not sure exactly why - maybe it was my emotional state or possibly the exhaustion I felt after having not slept well getting used to their nocturnal schedule or maybe it was because I was starving - whatever the reason, I raided our group's huge collection of earthworms, insects and grubs that were being saved for the winter. Suffice to say this was not a hugely popular move and after being attacked and beaten by this small collection of short-legged, weasel-like creatures, I gathered my belongings and walked 10 metres to my car and drove home.
Stallions race wildly on the beach kicking up huge clouds of sand. A mother bird feeds her babies in their precariously balanced nest. A lonely buffalo wanders aimlessly wondering where his friends have gone. The father penguin warms his baby boy while his wife braves the icy water in search of food. A team of termites hollow out an old tree trunk. And through it all there is whisper on the wind that only one who is truly listening can hear. The voice softly calls out "How now brown cow?"
I am a not a night owl. I am more like an late evening owl or sometimes a daytime owl. Well, not actually a daytime owl, probably closer to an early to middle afternoon owl although sometimes that can stretch into the early evening depending on what I had for lunch. Somedays I jump out of bed and could pass for a morning owl, except there are no morning owls, so I usually go to the gym and try to delay the olwing until at least the late morning or early to middle lunchtime. I agree that a night owl makes more sense, but I'm just to worn out from the day to make it happen. So, ideally middle to late lunch or early to mid afternoon and occasionally something around dinner time are my favourite times. If you are needing an owl impersonator or someone to do some owl-type chores or just to sit around looking wise, you know when is best for me. If you really are in need of a night owl, I hear Joe is good for that.
The early bird catches the worm, or so I've been told since I was a child. To test that theory, I woke up at the crack of dawn for two straight weeks and crouched ready to spring in my backyard. The result? Aside from witnessing a few beautiful sunrises and enjoying many sprinklings of fresh dew, I now have a collection of an array of "early birds". Enjoy your freedom worms!
There is more than one way to skin a cat, but only one way that meets the standard of the ICSA (the International Cat Skinning Association) an association I find abhorrent, yet whose agenda is oddly compelling when one of my cats won't stop meowing and scratching at the door at 3am.
You can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink. Well maybe the horse just isn't thirsty have you thought about that, smart guy? Nope! You are just sitting there what with your horn-rimmed glasses and your goatee just assuming that all horses must be thirsty and that they would appreciate your gift of some water. Well, let me tell you, your water ain't all that. First - it's lukewarm - I know because I got down on my hands and knees all horse-like and tried some. Yuck! Either put some ice in it or don't expect any one to be drinking it. Second - it's got strands of hay in it. Let me tell you something - horses like hay and they like cold water, but they don't like them mixed together! It would be like me mixing in some of your peanut butter and jam sandwich with your milk. Do you want that? Well, I tried some (that's why there was a bite from your sandwich and your glass looked used) and it wasn't that great - soggy sandwich and muddy milk. Third, maybe the horses want things to be switched up from time to time - like maybe some green tea for digestion? Or some pomegranate juice for all of the antioxidants? Or maybe some espresso -mostly because that would be so muh fun for us to watch. So, that's right - you can do all of the horse-to-water leading you want, but just don't expect to get the result you are looking for.
I, like most people, enjoy a good wild goose chase. For many years people had domesticated goose chases, which were boring and hard to sell tickets for and almost definitely fixed. I am glad those sad, sorry days are behind us.
I have been told for years now that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Despite my many attempts, I have no idea at all what this means! When will I ever have a bird in my hand? I mean, unless it is dead and then what sort of weirdo am I? Killing birds only to walk around with their decaying carcasses in my hand!?!? Am I trying to become significantly more unpopular and smelly? Okay, so let's say I could obtain or procure said bird and let's just say, for argument's sake, that the bird is still alive and came to rest on my hand on its own volition. How? Well...maybe I developed a new, irresistible bird seed that birds from far and wide flock to. What? It's possible. You have no idea if I have been revising a bird seed formula for years now or not. Anyways - I now have the bird in my hand and we are parading around town. In my dreams, this is a truly majestic bird with amazingly colourful feathers and it draws the high regard of all passersby. But somehow, this bird in my hand is worth two in a bush? What?!?!? How is that possible? There is just no way a bird that I somehow "convinced" to be in my hand is equivalent in value to two random birds in a bush! I mean what are the birds doing in the bush that is making anyone else's life demonstratively better in any way?!?! Sure they may be attractive and make lovely cheeps and chirps for me to wake up to on spring mornings, but unless those birds are able to complete all of my yard work in a timely fashion and pick little bugs out of my hair without making my scalp bloody it sounds like a wash to me at best.
When I was 21 I was nearly badgered to death. Even telling this story now brings me close to tears. I was camping alone in the woods and came across a friendly clan of badgers. I'm not sure how it happened, but after a short while, we learned to communicate with each other and soon afterwards, truly understood each other's hopes and wishes and feelings. The two weeks I spent with those badgers were one of the highlights of my life - a time I really felt loved and a truly accepted part of a group. Things couldn't have been better and if I wasn't due back at university for the start of the next semester I could have seen myself staying. On the final day, all of us were growing emotional and sensing the impact of my leaving. I'm not sure exactly why - maybe it was my emotional state or possibly the exhaustion I felt after having not slept well getting used to their nocturnal schedule or maybe it was because I was starving - whatever the reason, I raided our group's huge collection of earthworms, insects and grubs that were being saved for the winter. Suffice to say this was not a hugely popular move and after being attacked and beaten by this small collection of short-legged, weasel-like creatures, I gathered my belongings and walked 10 metres to my car and drove home.
Stallions race wildly on the beach kicking up huge clouds of sand. A mother bird feeds her babies in their precariously balanced nest. A lonely buffalo wanders aimlessly wondering where his friends have gone. The father penguin warms his baby boy while his wife braves the icy water in search of food. A team of termites hollow out an old tree trunk. And through it all there is whisper on the wind that only one who is truly listening can hear. The voice softly calls out "How now brown cow?"
I am a not a night owl. I am more like an late evening owl or sometimes a daytime owl. Well, not actually a daytime owl, probably closer to an early to middle afternoon owl although sometimes that can stretch into the early evening depending on what I had for lunch. Somedays I jump out of bed and could pass for a morning owl, except there are no morning owls, so I usually go to the gym and try to delay the olwing until at least the late morning or early to middle lunchtime. I agree that a night owl makes more sense, but I'm just to worn out from the day to make it happen. So, ideally middle to late lunch or early to mid afternoon and occasionally something around dinner time are my favourite times. If you are needing an owl impersonator or someone to do some owl-type chores or just to sit around looking wise, you know when is best for me. If you really are in need of a night owl, I hear Joe is good for that.
The early bird catches the worm, or so I've been told since I was a child. To test that theory, I woke up at the crack of dawn for two straight weeks and crouched ready to spring in my backyard. The result? Aside from witnessing a few beautiful sunrises and enjoying many sprinklings of fresh dew, I now have a collection of an array of "early birds". Enjoy your freedom worms!
There is more than one way to skin a cat, but only one way that meets the standard of the ICSA (the International Cat Skinning Association) an association I find abhorrent, yet whose agenda is oddly compelling when one of my cats won't stop meowing and scratching at the door at 3am.
You can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink. Well maybe the horse just isn't thirsty have you thought about that, smart guy? Nope! You are just sitting there what with your horn-rimmed glasses and your goatee just assuming that all horses must be thirsty and that they would appreciate your gift of some water. Well, let me tell you, your water ain't all that. First - it's lukewarm - I know because I got down on my hands and knees all horse-like and tried some. Yuck! Either put some ice in it or don't expect any one to be drinking it. Second - it's got strands of hay in it. Let me tell you something - horses like hay and they like cold water, but they don't like them mixed together! It would be like me mixing in some of your peanut butter and jam sandwich with your milk. Do you want that? Well, I tried some (that's why there was a bite from your sandwich and your glass looked used) and it wasn't that great - soggy sandwich and muddy milk. Third, maybe the horses want things to be switched up from time to time - like maybe some green tea for digestion? Or some pomegranate juice for all of the antioxidants? Or maybe some espresso -mostly because that would be so muh fun for us to watch. So, that's right - you can do all of the horse-to-water leading you want, but just don't expect to get the result you are looking for.
I, like most people, enjoy a good wild goose chase. For many years people had domesticated goose chases, which were boring and hard to sell tickets for and almost definitely fixed. I am glad those sad, sorry days are behind us.
I am sly like a fox. Shhhh.
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