Tag Archives: humour

Dot, Dot, Dot . . .

Most of my regular readers are familiar with my use of three dots.  I am of the generation that is not completely comfortable with the use of emojis. Quite frankly, I would have to invent my own. I find them woefully inadequate and they do not represent the emotion I would have at that time. I would only be able to use something that was an approximation. That ain’t me.

At its most basic, writing conveys information. Information can be sterile and while edifying, it really has no emotion. Individual words, sentence length and punctuation do attempt to fill in the gap but they too are inadequate. Communication is approximately 90% nonverbal. 90%! The twinkle in the eye, the upturned corner of the mouth, the slight flush to the cheeks or the bowed head. A sigh, a giggle. These all speak volumes without words. Inflection, hesitation, volume, all of these speak to emotion in the meaning of the words. A gifted writer will convey all of these with their words. A gifted writer. The rest of us just fumble. Hence . . .

Punctuation can help with inflections on sentences or words. Three dots imply a hesitation, a pause. During a face-to-face conversation that can be quite telling. If I have to explain to my readers that my eyebrows were raised while making a statement then that statement becomes unimportant, even amusing. And yet if it is done while we are speaking face-to-face it will emphasize the statement.

Social media has enabled us to stay in touch but it has taken the colour out of our words. Emojis try to replace them with tiny little images which, in my opinion, are utterly inadequate. I also find that there are a lot of anagrams in use. I’m embarrassed to admit that a lot of them I don’t understand. For years I thought LOL meant Lots Of Love. Oops. Now I know it means Laugh out Loud. But there is no dictionary to tell you what they mean! Fortunately, I have friends who take pity on me (I am sure they are smirking although I can’t see it) and they explain things to me. It took me years before I finally broke down and asked what ROTFL meant or SWMBO. (Rolling On The Floor Laughing and She Who Must Be Obeyed) Just in case I’m not alone out here…

Ain’t communication grand!

I’m Feeling Wonderful

I’m feeling wonderful,

And I don’t know why!

I’m on top of the world,

And there’s rain in the sky!

 

The sun shines around me,

Tho’ the clouds up above.

There’s a smile on my face,

And I’m thinking thereof.

 

I don’t understand,

The happiness I feel.

I frankly don’t care,

I hope that it’s real.

 

The feelings I feel,

Are only for me.

Others may have them,

Just now let me be.

 

This day like the others,

When I’m feeling this good,

I’ll treasure the memory,

And do what I should.

 

I’m feeling wonderful!

And I don’t know why.

I’m on top of the world,

I tell you no lie!

 

 

I Did Not Say That!

I am convinced that my Dictation Software is actually a 15-year-old pimply boy wearing socks with Flip-flops and sweatpants sitting in his mother’s basement chewing bubble-gum. I know this because some of his auto corrections on my blog are . . .   Shall we say inappropriate. Which of course means I have to share. As an example: this is what happened when I left a comment on a post at nofacilities.com:  You’re a penis Arnel serve yourself. That’s what auto correct said! No joke. This is what I said:  Your peanuts are now serve yourself? Dan had shared a picture of a bag of peanuts on his back deck. He feeds the squirrels, usually.

Now I am not a prude. I didn’t go ballistic at the word penis. It’s a word. But I do find it hilarious how so many of these auto check changes are sexual in nature. Does that not scream teenage boy? Now when it comes to profanity. . . (I worked for the police for 30 years I am not afraid of profanity.   I actually have quite a litany of vulgar verbiage at my disposal.) Spell check has no trouble spelling expletives perfectly. I get cranky and I get annoyed at auto correct. Because basically, it’s not correct! And it infuriates me when I’m taking great care to enunciate correctly and it prints something that isn’t even a bloody word! Sorry, redhead, temper. I can understand changes with the spelling. I may not like it but I understand it. I am Canadian and the spellcheck is American. There are certain words that we do spell differently, for example: humour and humor.  Oh, my word, spellcheck got that one right! I guess that pimply 15-year-old was listening.  Ha ha ha!

Throughout the ages so many have named their devices. The golf club that’s called Big Bertha, men naming their cars after well, something they probably won’t want to explain. I have never really felt the need. But sometimes I want to have somebody to yell at in my frustration and it really is absolutely no fun at all to yell at a device that has no feeling. So, if I have a teenager hiding in his mom’s basement to be annoyed with, I’m good!

 

 

The Cabal

The dishwasher whispered,

To the toaster one day.

There’s crumbs in my workings,

In an irritating way!

 

The toaster responded,

With a mouth full of bread.

The faults not my own,

It’s the humans I said!

 

The kettle then screamed,

My ass it’s a glow!

Stop bickering this minute,

My lid’s gonna blow!

 

The oven just smiled,

A long gentle burn.

He knew what was coming,

He’d just wait his turn.

 

Then a cold laden breeze,

Filled the room with despair.

With the fridge door ajar,

They knew who was there.

 

“Breakfast is ready”!

Came the bone chilling call.

And the hoards then descended,

On the appliances’ cabal.

 

 

Slipping Away…

 

It’s dark. Everything is dark. All your senses are tentatively reaching out only to touch darkness. Slowly, oh so slowly your eyes creep open, just a touch. Your head moves of its own volition towards the clock. Your eyes start to focus. 2, 1, 7. It’s 2:17 in the bloody morning! Your eyes burst open and your head practically levitates off the pillow. Damn! You have another three hours to sleep. Sleep. If only it was that easy. You’ve only been unconscious for . . .  three hours. Six solid hours of sleep is good, been working for you for years. It’s when it is interrupted by . . . whatever, that it becomes a problem. And then it happens.

Your eyes close in frustration, you become aware of something unusual, something enticing. You move your eyes back-and-forth behind your lids trying to find that little spark that you just saw briefly in the recesses of your mind.  You start to sigh, your frustration growing when that spark maturates, ripens.  Behind your closed eyes that intoxication begins to take form, begins to make sense. Understanding forces your eyes open wide. This is good. This is very good. Your mind continues to weave and coalesce. Images force themselves to the front of your mind, they become sharp and clear.  YES!

You are a writer and this is proof! This is going to turn the world on fire! Damn this is good! You spend the next several hours organizing, deleting, extrapolating your brilliant idea. When you’re finally satisfied, you have a brief moment of panic: you should probably write this down. You were itching to get up and put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and record this for posterity. Because that is what’s going to happen. This is going to be extolled from the highest towers of publishing. Damn it’s good.

You look over at the clock feeling drained but exhilarated. 2, 4, 5.  Wait! What? It’s only been a few minutes! Your mind is spinning  and then the unthinkable happens. You are overcome with fatigue. Your eyes slowly begin to close. You struggle to keep them open and then convince yourself that your brilliance is far too bright to be forgotten. You will remember. The gentle fingers of sleep massage your temples and pull you deeper, deeper. You sleep.

And like water seeping through your fingertips. You cannot hold back the tide and you forget. When you finally awaken you remember the brilliance, you remember the incredible feeling of satisfaction and vindication but you forget the words. You desperately try to rewind your mind; you try to catch even a glimpse of that intoxication and you can’t. It’s gone. It fades like tendrils of fog and is whispered away on the wind to be remembered no more.

Welcome to my world.

A Bundle of Keys

A bundle of keys,

The memories they hold.

Once gripped in my hand,

My past will unfold.

 

The tales I could tell,

The deeds I have done.

A life that was lived

Was chock full of fun!

 

A lover’s sweet kiss,

In the back of my car.

Miles we had driven,

Some near and some far.

 

My bike had a lock,

I thought it secure.

But wily mean bullies,

Saw that as a lure.

 

The key to my heart,

Is not kept in a box.

It is worn on my sleeve,

My mind holds the locks.

 

A diary of secrets,

Is unlocked with a key.

Dare if you must,

You may just find me!

 

What Is a Poem?

Is Poetry just words,

Set down on a page?

Or is it a hunger,

Of sadness or rage?

 

Is it straight from the heart,

Through words from the mind?

An attempt to connect,

Perhaps redefined?

 

If truth is the goal,

Are the words more satirical?

To soften the blow,

They could be quite lyrical!

 

I know in my heart,

The words here are true.

Impassioned, embolden,

The many, the few.

 

Poetry is love,

It is hate and despair.

For some it’s a way,

To show that they care.

 

The sweet gentle kiss,

Of a butterfly’s wings.

The dulcet sweet sounds,

As the Morning Dove sings.

 

Poetry is the blood,

That flows through the words.

The cadence the spice,

In first and in thirds.

 

Fear not the meaning,

Immersed in the rhyme.

Poetry is everything,

And nothing in time.

 

Share in your knowledge,

And destroy every barrier.

Rejoice in the words,

And then be a carrier.

 

 

Errant Thoughts

An errant thought crept up on me,

I didn’t have a chance.

It made me climb a big old tree,

And pushed me off a branch!

 

Then I waded in a pool,

With mud and creepy crawlies!

Something wrapped around my leg,

How somethings’ get their jollies!

 

Please! Oh please! Just let me out!

Let my thoughts be nice.

A hunk of cheese, a glass of wine,

Perhaps leave out the mice!

 

But I fear, it’s not to be,

My thought is on a bender.

It thinks of things I’d never do!

Could I just surrender?

 

Bungee jumping from a plane?

I think that thought is crazy!

Deep sea diving and no mask?

The world is getting hazy!

 

I was startled from the thought,

Alarms began to squawk!

Now the world is settling down,

It’s just my bedside clock!

D.N.A

My hair is from Scotland,

And the twinkle in my eye.

My pasty white skin,

Maybe the Island of Skye?

 

My attitude’s my own,

Or my mother’s, I think.

But dad had tenacity,

And the courage not to blink.

 

My grandmother is here,

Add my grandfather too.

Back generations I’m told,

And yet some of its new.

 

I believe in myself,

The person I am.

We’re all here together,

In sort of a jam.

 

Six generations removed,

They say it began.

And all through the ages,

I’m just one of the clan.

 

I give thanks to an uncle,

For freckles on my nose.

And then there’s that cousin,

Who gave me his toes.

 

The DNA chapter,

Is still being written.

But scientists now,

Are so very smitten.

 

Your looks and your manners,

Began in your past.

If good you will keep them,

If not they won’t last.

 

So look to the future,

Your descendants to come.

Think of the habits,

You can give them for fun!

I dreamt about underwear . . .

I originally wrote this in April 2017. Since I didn’t have a post ready for this Sunday, I thought I would regale you with an old one. It made me chuckle…

Say what? Now if I were wealthy, I would be considered eccentric, but no I’m just odd.  It is, however, the kind of odd that amuses me so I will continue with my . . . . oddities.

Articles of clothing are not my usual topic for dreamland but I’m presently in the market for a few new necessities of comfort. Now that is a topic I am most familiar with: comfort. You ladies understand and gentlemen . . . think of women’s intimates not just as pretty packages for really cool prizes but as a metaphor for a good society.  Now aren’t you glad you continued to read?

You thought I was going to go smutty and I segued into a societal discourse on the human condition.  Welcome to my twisted mind. As I see it a woman’s intimates provide a foundation on which to build a carapace within which one interacts with society.

What we show to each other is not necessarily who we are. Each article of clothing is combined to elicit a mood, a look, a means to complete a necessary task.  A night out at the pub – perhaps a thong.  A doctor’s appointment – full brief. Court case – flaming red hipsters.  It’s all about how it makes us feel.

As a society we hide our feelings and allow only what is acceptable to show on a daily basis. Love, hate, anger, envy . . . the list is exhaustive. In order for society to function properly, people need to conform to expected doctrine. But that doesn’t mean an individual has to completely suppress their personal individuality, but rather adapt to meet the circumstances of the moment.

I know this seems complicated and unnecessary but it all comes down to foundation. If a house is built with the proper foundation it can last for 100 years. If a society has a proper foundation on which to build, it will remain stable instead of fracturing at the first sign of trouble. Countries with a strong foundation can weather horrible troubles and still maintain its identity.

Perhaps now you understand why sleeping isn’t always a restful activity for me. But my dreams are never dull!