I unfortunately overhead one of the most asinine things I’ve heard in a long time, on the radio while driving to work a few days ago. I wish I could ‘unheard’ it but it was cemented in after various other media blasted it into my brain. It was the story about the Starbucks Christmas Cup Controversy. Lucky you if this is your first time hearing about this. Some guy with obviously too much time on his hands and a penchant for igniting controversial discussions, made a video stating that Starbucks was out to wage a ‘war on Christmas’ because of its minimalistic Christmas coffee cups. They were not Christmassy enough for his liking.
Joshua Feuerstein, the guy behind all this, wrote, “Starbucks removed Christmas from their cups because they hate Jesus,” Yes, Josh, that’s a pure sign of hatred if I ever did see one. It reeks of disdain and loathe for Jesus!
“I think in the age of political correctness we’ve become so open-minded our brains have literally fallen out of our head.” Feuerstein said in his Facebook video “Did you realize that Starbucks wanted to take Christ and Christmas off of their brand new cups? That’s why they are just plain red.” I applaud you for bringing this to my attention Mr. Feuerstein, I knew my head was missing something, just never realized it was my brain. I know a few others with missing brains. Have you found yours yet, Josh?
I am a Christian and I love Christmas. I know that the day is not actually the day Christ was born but I use it to remember the BIRTH and celebrate accordingly. I really don’t give two hoots about who wants to join me in celebrating or who choose not to. In fact, I barely notice the difference these days. In this age of political correctness that Joshua refers to, I have seen ‘Christmas’ switched to ‘holiday’ for fear that it tramples the rights of those who choose not to celebrate this day. Still, I see it as a non-issue. It’s the way of the world. Farther along we’ll understand why.
Making a issue over a company’s choice on how they want to adorn their cups is silly and a waste of thought. Surprisingly, millions like-minded people agree that Starbucks is definitely out to kill Christmas! Astounding! It’s only a cup. My Christmas does not hinge on a disposable cup. Well maybe what’s inside when I wake up early on Christmas morning does help…so why are we discussing this? Folks, there are more important things out there to worry about, like how do they get the caramilk inside one of those caramel bars.
When Jesus said ‘Take this cup away from me’, he wasn’t referring to a Starbucks cup. Or was he??
Just My Take
I received a call from the casting agency that I’ve done a lot of work for regarding a role as an extra in an upcoming television series called, ‘The Pinkertons’. The show was centered around life in 1860s Kansas. When I got there, I noticed right away that one of these things were not like the other. Well make that most of the people were not like me, or the other black extra, an older gentleman who I quickly gravitated to. As expected for that era in the USA, everyone, meaning the Caucasians, had that ‘look’. You know the white 1800s look? The beard, hard face…ready to rope a black man look? They had it. Man these guys were awesome extras!
“This is going to be interesting.” I said to my new friend and fellow minority. I don’t think there were any aristocratic looking blacks wandering around Kansas around that time, were there? Costume did a great job of putting us in getups that made us look like well-to-do slaves. Ok maybe freshly-freed slaves. They even came by from time to time and rubbed dirt on us. Hey, it’s all about credibility. Then it was time to send the extras to their various positions or activities. Now this is where ‘interesting’ comes in. Remember, blacks weren’t ‘in style’ back then. So where oh where should we go? At first they told us to stand on the train platform and pretend to lift a box. Nice! I will be on camera! Well that suggestion didn’t last too long. While all the other extras were finding their niches rather easily, finding something to do with the black guys was creating a small problem. That was until I spotted an 1860 wheelbarrow sitting there right in front of me. “I can push that”, I offered. The production guy was only to glad to agree. I pushed the thing for most of the day. Back and forth, figure 8s, letter H, back and forth…
It wasn’t exactly all I did. One scene called for the extras, or townsfolks as they/we were called, to pretend to be engaging in buying and selling outside their stores. There were Coffin makers, Mercantile stores, Pottery stores, etc. Again, it was no problem finding a spot for the Caucasians. My friend and I were brought over to the mercantile store that sold pots and pans and other supplies. We were told to pretend we were buying something. That idea lasted as long as the first one. After some head-scratching and hmms and aaahs from the production fella, I spotted another prop. A broom. “I can use this and pretend to sweep.” I offered, grabbing the broom and sweeping the dirt lightly. “Yes! Perfect!” The guy must surely be thanking his lucky stars that I was on the ball. I swept or pretended to sweep for a few hours.
I was having a field day with this. Watching them struggle trying to figure out where we should go. I could imagine the director thinking, “Who thought it was a great idea having a couple black extras? This could very well compromise the integrity of the show.” Or maybe, “I could have sworn the casting call was for white extras.” As each new scene was introduced, I would tell my friend and new partner, “Let’s see where they are going to put us now.” The we would both have a good laugh at the expense of the guy trying to find somewhere to hide to black guys. The last scene I did before they decided to wrap me, was shot on the train station platform. Everyone was to be on or close to the platform as it involved someone getting off the train and the hubbub that ensued. Again, finding somewhere to put the two black guys presented a headache. They finally decided to split us up. My friend was taken somewhere and I was taken to the platform. Yes! Right in the thick of things! Not so fast. The guy had another changed of heart, “Hmmm….how about you and you go stand at the corral and you pretend to be showing him what to do?” You and you meant my friend and I. He had come full circle and we were once again re-united.
So off we went to our new job as stable boys. We looked at the camera and figured if we stand in a certain spot we would be sure to get some face time but when the director yelled, “Background!” we were disappointed to see a pall of movie smoke coming our way. Effectively thwarting our dreams of being seen. We both had a laugh at this. “Oh well…”, said the old man.
The food was great. The people were nice and friendly and it was a great day spent outdoors. I later found a newspaper ad for extras for the show. It read in part: “Winnipeg casting agency Kari Casting has put out the call for “Caucasian extras, both male and female, ages 18-70, to fill background roles as townsfolk, saloon barmaids, saloon patrons, union soldiers, coal workers, police, and many more.” Maybe they ran out of caucasians?
Click here to read about the show and see some more photos (with Caucasians) taken on the set. On page 2, you could see my wheelbarrow. A split second more and I would have been in that shot!
Is it me or people are less funny nowadays? In the not too distant past just about everyone was a budding comedian. In the workplace there was always ‘the funny guy’ who was always ready with a joke, sometimes politically incorrect or overly colourful. But they were designed mostly to lighten the air and not to hurt or belittle anyone. In fact, the butt of some of these jokes were the ones telling them, or they were a part of the audience.
Maybe it’s just that the world has gotten so political correct that it’s hard to be funny without the fear of hurting someone’s feeling. I mean when you think of it, just about every joke out there has the potential to hurt someone’s feelings, if they were inclined to feel hurt. Jokes about animals could hurt some animal rights activists. Blondes used to be the go-to for funny jokes until we caught on it that it was all an act and they were actually smart. No wonder they never took offense.
Politically correctness has its place in society but when it’s taken too far it takes all the funny out of life. I could tell you about the Priest and the Rabbi but one of them might get hurt. If not them, then their parishioners.
If you are an unemployed man, raise your hand. Um…not so fast sir. You haven’t worked for some time and I doubt you have any intentions of working so let me rephrase that. If you are a man who has recently lost his job, raise your hand. Hmm…Ok ok. Don’t do that either. You look a bit silly sitting in front of your computer with your hand in the air. If someone should walk in on you right now they would think you have lost it. No, not your job, your mind.
Anyways, since I very rudely and abruptly lost my job when the employment carpet was unceremoniously yanked from under my feet, I have noticed that there are quite a few other dads out there who suffered the same fate. Either that or they are lying to me as a way of expressing their sympathy. I am gullible so I doubt that. I now know at least 5 other men who have lost their jobs within weeks and months of my own departure. Most of us have kids which makes me wonder if there is something afoot. Are our wives up to some kind of sneaky underhanded dealings? Are they in cahoots with our bosses? They think we are not ‘mommy’ enough to handle stay-at-home duties? Well we will show them!
My fellow daddy-day-carers, let’s go forward in solidarity! Let’s show our wives that we are capable of being darn good stay-at-home dads. We will only call them when we need, I repeat, need, to know where our kids’ clothes are, what they like to eat and what are their names. We won’t ask the obvious questions that they are probably waiting for us to ask, like ‘Honey, can you tell me who wears the red Nikes?’ Hello! We will try them on the kids until it fits someone. Duh!
Since I was forced into my stay-at-home daddy role, I can see a difference around the home. Mikhail is riding a bike without training wheels, the kids are eating less, which is good for weight watching. I mean, most of it is because I keep forgetting to make meals but that’s besides the point. We are also saving on gas bills as we eat fast food more often. Let the restaurants pay the gas bills. Kenyan even tried coffee for the first time. Do you think mommy would have allowed him that treat? Of course not.
About school, my two older boys are now going to a French immersion school. It’s great except that I couldn’t keep track of the Madames at that school when it was only one kid attending, with two there’s no way I could remember! Plus they are usually weird french names. Names like Madame Dideau, Madame Richelu and Madame Jackson. (told you they were weird). My wife remembers them all but she doesn’t have to worry about other stuff like who wears the red Nikes and who eats what. I am not done. My youngest is repeating preschool. I know, big deal eh? Well here this…He gets off at 11:30am, Kenyan at 11:00 and Mik at 3:12. I think it’s 3:12. Guess who has to pick them up at these staggered time? Yep, me! It’s piece of cake. I mean I am sure I will show up at the wrong time and at the wrong school but as long as I say ‘Excusez-moi madame but where is my kid?’ I should be ok.
So if you start seeing kids walking around with Nikes too big for their feet while holding a cup of coffee and waiting for their daddy who is either running late or waiting at the wrong school/bus stop, don’t worry about it. They are from the new day care in your area most likely ran by an unemployed dad. The kids will be fine, no worries. Fellas, let’s show our wives how we do things. Raise your…actually never mind.
You all know what a Furby is, right? If you do, then you know how darn irritating they can become. If you don’t, it is basically a robotic toy resembling a hamster crossed with an owl. Furbies speak Furbish at first then learn to speak English over time.
Santa, aka my wife, got the boys a much-requested Furby as one of their Christmas presents. I was almost as excited as they were as I had heard so much about them but never really saw one up close. Some years ago, Furbies were the most sought-after gifts for Christmas and caused pandemonium in stores as they quickly become a hard to get or even impossible to get, item.
Furby’s novelty wore off fast when I realized that he did not come with a button of any kind so his annoying voice could not be turned down or turned off. His bright eyes lit up like headlights on a car were also not fun at night. Yep, poor Furby outgrew his welcome very fast. At least in my opinion. Furby can start a conversation at the slightest provocation and sometimes without any provocation. Reminds you of that annoying drunk girl at the bar that never stops talking, doesn’t it? (Note that some girls don’t have to be drunk or at the bar to be like that).
Last night, while enjoying some REM sleep, I changed position and immediately awoke because of something hard jabbing into my head. I reached under the pillow and my searching hand was greeted by, yes, Furby himself! The boys must have hidden him there. Now what? If I move him too much, he will start squawking. The mischievous man in me made me take him out from under my pillow and slowly, very slowly, placed him underneath my wife’s. Well the little robot did not take kindly to this intrusion. He was not happy with being evicted. He started insulting me in Furbish. Letting me know how rude I was to interrupt his beauty rest. (Not sure how beautiful a robotic hamster owl can become). Don’t ask me how I knew he was insulting me, I just knew. I didn’t need to speak Furbish to know when I’m being berated. Even while partially muffled by her pillow, his rants woke up up the wife and she grabbed him and placed him on her dresser which he used as a pulpit to deliver his scathing sermon. He looked at us with his headlight-gaze and we knew immediately that while Mr. Furby was thus engaged, there would be no sleep. So we waited.
Furby grew tired finally and with a last Furbish insult flung our way, his eyes grew dim and he succumbed to the sandman. No sound. No lights. Too bad the damage was done. It was 2am and for me, sleep did not return. For Amie, her snoring answered that question.
Mr. Furby is now on a short leash.
Everyone seems to be watching what they eat these days. “Wow girl! You looking fantabulous! What have you been doing baby?” “Oh just watching what I eat…”
Well not wanting to be left out, I jumped on the Watching-what-I-eat bandwagon. After my first week, I noticed some changes. I didn’t lose any weight but I happened to find a hair in my triple cheeseburger, fingernail on my 8th slice of pizza, something that looked like a tooth in my double whopper cheese with bacon and my dark meat from KFC was red. By the way, I got so carried away with watching what I ate that I sometimes watch what the other people eat too and that’s how I saw the fly resting comfortably on a bed of rice that the guy next to me was eating. And all that was only in my first week of being on the program. It really pays to watch what I eat. Before, I just wolfed everything down with hardly a glance.
I can see how one could lose weight from just looking at what they ate.
I am watching what I eat alright…
Oh, and make sure to count your patties on a triple quarter pounder.
Don’t panic just yet but I have some bad news. Apparently there is an epidemic, or is it pandemic? that is going around. Yes sir, it’s called Texteritis that is very contagious. It does not discriminate. Sex, age or race, no one is exempted. Don’t take this lightly folks, this is some serious stuff I’m talking about right here. I don’t care who you are, this stuff aint funny.
Take the other day for example, my wife and I were at a restaurant enjoying a rare lunch moment alone. No, not alone with the kids, alone with each other. There’s no such thing as ‘enjoying lunch with kids’ and you should know that, if not go read here. But anyways, as I was saying, we were having lunch at a restaurant and happened to see these five young construction workers suffering from various forms of Texteritis. Texteritis usually renders its victim speechless and devoid of social skills, hence they were sitting there without a word to each other. Their hunched shoulders, were also a symptom of Texteritis. How sad.
Now, I am not immune to this disease. I have experienced minor symptoms myself which compels me to grab my cell while in the company of friends and family, and start texting. With exercise and self-discipline, I have been able to avert a full onset of the disease, fortunately. Some are not so fortunate.
In the same restaurant, not far from the stricken construction workers, four businessmen sat with zombie-like expressions, (a visible sign of Texteritis). They, like the construction workers, had also lost the ability to converse. Again, how sad.
If you are still thinking that this is a teenager disease, think again. On the weekend I was at the beach and not far from my picnic spot sat an elderly gentleman and his happy-face wife. I am not sure why she was even happy as her husband was obviously suffering late stage Texteritis. He was sitting there, albeit close to her, while his thumbs flew across the keypad. Ok, maybe he was just playing games on it but he too seemed to have lost verbal communication. When I left the beach, he was still sitting there with his oblivious happy wife. Well, as the saying goes, as long as they are happy…
The crazy thing about Texteritis is that it can strike at anytime and anyplace, just asked the young woman who was took ill on her own wedding day while walking down the aisle with her dad no less! Yes, you read it right, she had to send and or receive a text message at that important time. If you are going, ‘What?!’ Read it here. This Texteritis is nothing to sneeze at. poor bride. How sad.
I have seen victims of the disease at work desks, bus stops, churches, toilet stalls, everywhere.
I am a worry wart or a hypochondriac as the medical people call it, so I of course went to see my doctor with my concerns. He assured me that I had nothing to worry about and that Texteritis generally, note that I said ‘generally’ strikes those between 13 and 39. He said with proper parenting, my own kids should be ok. The good doctor also made some suggestions as to how I could immunize myself and my family from this dreaded disease.
I will share his recommendations with you.
Keep exercising your voice by using it to talk to my friends and family, not by texting.
When in a social setting, put cell on vibrate and put it away unless it’s an emergency.
It’s not that important that you have to text and drive or walk and text.
You should practice calling someone on you cell. If you can remember how to.
I quickly made it home to pass on this information to our ailing foster son. His response was, “Maybe they have an app for that.”
Note: If you or someone you know are experiencing uncontrollable urges to texts at inopportune times which alienates you from friends and family, please pay attention to your symptoms and seek help immediately, your social life depends on it!
Have you ever looked in your wife’s or girlfriend’s purse? Heck, if you are a woman, have you ever looked in your own purse? Well I have, (No, not looked in your purse, my wife’s) and I wished I didn’t. It’s like stepping into the twilight zone. Like opening up a door that leads to another realm. Like Alice In Wonderland. Like stepping into another universe. It’s like rifling through your rich neighbor’s garbage. (They have got to be rich to put their garbage in Gucci containers).
A few days ago, I couldn’t find the keys to the car. As my wife is usually the culprit when things go missing, I immediately consulted her. She told me that she thinks it may be in her purse and I should look in there. My blood pressure immediately went up a notch. No, not the purse. Please no! Let it be in her jacket pocket like they were last time. The less interaction I had with the purse, the better it is for me.
I continued to look elsewhere for the keys just in case she was wrong and it wasn’t in The Purse. One could only put off the inevitable for so long so there I was hovering over my wife’s purse hoping that the keys, if they were in there, would somehow float right out without my intervention, like the magicians do it.
Unfortunately, I was no David Blaine. The keys remained right where they were, disobediently snuggled in The Purse. I had to go in. I grabbed The Purse like I was holding a live crab and gingerly undid the latch. I held my breath as I flip the flap over to show the contents…I think I also closed my eyes, I’m not sure so don’t quote me on that one. When The Purse’s flap was laid back, the interior was exposed to my eyes.
I reached in…What’s this? A cigar? When did my wife started smoking? Oh never mind. I saw a soother that was not used for at least 3 years. Toys, makeup, eyeliner, flattened granola bars, baby diapers, (Way too small), golf ball, kid’s sweater or a jacket, baby shoes, pack of tissues, band aid…I gave up taking inventory when I saw what I was looking for, the keys. Next time, it might be easier to just step into the purse and look around but I am hoping there is no next time.
Now I know why my poor wife suffers back pain, she totes around a small house. Maybe I should be a nice husband and get her a cargo carrier…or a suitcase.