Jetson Stamina

Letters To Bump

2009-09-06T07:09:00.000-07:00

Dear Bump,
I just finished watching an episode of Laurel & Hardy. They wrapped up the story with this little gem. “The Moral of the story is, never beat a child on an empty stomach”

This line seemed to come out of nowhere, spoken by a child actor who had nothing to do with the story. It was like the director needed a punch line to conclude the story. That was the line he chose?!?

It was odd and spectacular and wrong all it once. It was also... hilarious!

As I’m sure I will tell you often; If it’s funny, it’s funny. When it comes to humor, your only concern should be to know how your laughter may affect others and when it’s appropriate to laugh out loud.

Never let anyone tell you that you can’t find something funny. Humor isn’t just about laughter. Sometimes it allows us to live through the pain we were living in.

We’re off to watch you do back flips in the placenta. Soon we’ll know if you’ve got girly bits or if you're smuggling an anaconda.

See you soon.

Hot or Not

2009-08-30T08:02:00.000-07:00

Regardless / Using irregardless to mean regardless.

Tom Waits Songs / Covers of Tom Wait songs

Creed Reunion / Creed break-up (The greater of two evils that ensures the propagation of more creed-like bands)

Cassius Marcellus Coolidge, painted “Dogs Playing Poker”/ NGC Curator who dedicated an entire room to a con artist and his two boulders.

Justin Bateman / Bale as Batman

Because / Using “for the simple fact that” to mean because.

East Coast Accents / Straight Out Compton Ontario Accents

Infomercials / Commercials

Poontang / Tang

Pants. Normal pants / Skinny jeans

Fireplaces / Natural Gas Faux-Fireplaces (impostor!)

Actual News / News tickers that distract me from listening to the news

Canadian health care / Americans that claim I'm unhappy with my health care.

Dear Bump

2009-08-26T17:23:00.001-07:00

Dear Bump,its 7:41 am. Your mom is in the bedroom and wherever she goes, you go. Get used to it, I suspect you’ll want to be around her even when you’re not umbilically contracted to do so. She’s pretty fun and she’s one of only a handful of people who will always have your best interest at heart

We’re at the boss’ cottage today. I am buried in the corner of the most comfortable sectional ever. It’s like a bog of pillows and blankets and you just have to trust that when you sit down, your head will stay above ground level. I’ve never been hugged by Della Reese, but I suspect it would feel like this couch does.

The view here is quite striking, a tree fort overlooking the lake. There are four loons on the lake this morning; it’s like watching an episode of The View. They’re all talking at once and none of it makes any sense.

It’s the second coolest thing that happened to me this week. I felt you kick a few days ago... I had my hand on your mom’s tummy and your foot ran up the palm of my hand I pictured you doing calisthenics to pass the time. Not everyone feels the baby kick at 19 weeks but I expected it.

Karma’s had it in for me since 77, and I’m pretty excited to pay it back with interest.

You’re going to be a handful.

Whiskey

2009-08-20T06:57:00.000-07:00

Whiskey. I didn’t buy you. I rented you for a few hours.

Whiskey. I picked you up at the liquor store and dropped you off in the police station parking lot.

Whiskey. You are the reason the 20 minute car ride home took 90 minutes but felt like 10 hours. Like sitting through a Wayans Brothers comedy.

Whiskey. I will never eat a hotdog ever again because of you.

Whiskey. You are the reason Mrs. Stamina gave me a concussion while shoving my head out the car window.

Whiskey. You are 1956 Renault Dauphine. 0 to 60 in 32 seconds. It takes you a while to get going… and once you do, nobody wants to be around you.

Whiskey. I broke a rocking lawn chair because of you. A two-seater. Come to think of it…. I should blame the hotdogs for that one.

Whiskey. I wasn’t dry heaving. I was practicing my Mountain Gorilla mating call.

Whiskey. You turned my poo into roofing tar.

Whiskey. I feel like a Mountain Gorilla raped me.

Whiskey. You seemed so affordable in the store and yet, I felt like I kept paying for you.

Whiskey. You are the reason I took a brief nap on the front lawn of a perfectly planned community with nature in mind.

Whiskey. They should make perfectly planned communities with alcoholics in mind.

Whiskey. You are the reason I asked the Pharmacist for a morning after pill when what I really wanted was a hangover pill I can take in the morning.

Whiskey. You ruin Sundays… but for a few fleeting moments, your Saturdays are pretty glorious.

Whiskey. Tell all the kids at the birthday party that Uncle Jetson doesn’t feel like playing soccer on the hottest Sunday in August.

Whiskey. Oh we will meet again… but next time things will be different.

THE HILL

2009-08-14T10:00:00.000-07:00

There was a time when I landscaped for the uber-rich. One particularly wealthy couple had a master bedroom that was a completely separate wing of their home. It was a giant edifice constructed on a 40ft elevation, surrounded by a hill with a 45-degree angle. We knew it simply as The Hill. The most feared place to mow in all of Rockliffe Park.

Every Friday at 3pm, it was my job to mow The Hill. Rain or shine. It was so steep that it could not be tackled vertically. Instead, it had to be mowed in a horizontal pattern like one of those spiral mountain paths in a children’s book.

I dreaded The Hill. I mean I really f%cking dreaded The Hill.

Not because of the wicked-bad burn in my quadriceps but because it was a mind field of dog feces. Allow me to better explain in a tasteful Haiku.

5 pure bread doggies
On A Eukanuba diet
Shitting on a hill

The Hill was a very contentious area for the staff. Housekeeping believed that it was Landscaping’s job to clean up the shit and vice versa. As a result, the shitstacles (or poo obstacles) grew exponentially until it was pretty much a public health issue.

Still though, Friday at 3pm. Rain or shine. Jetson Vs. The Hill.

The last time I ever mowed The Hill was on a rainy day in September of 1993.

I set the mower high enough so as to skip over the heaping piles of wet dog shit. Prior to mowing The Hill on that fateful afternoon, I believed that mulching wet dog shit and sending it flying into the hemisphere in a mist of brown rain was the worse thing that could happen to me.

This was not the case.

I began the long spiral climb up to the top. Hovering over every turd and if necessary, maneuvering around them like traffic cones. Except the traffic cones looked more like small piles of severed guerrilla fingers.

I was to be king of The Hill. It should have been a glorious day.

However, on my second last run, a mere 2ft from the top of The Hill, tragedy struck. The back wheel of my mower hit a small piece of shit, sending the mower into a fish tail. I tried to steady it but lost my footing and ended up ass over tea kettle.

My back hit the ground so hard, it was like being punched in the chest from the inside out.

As I layed there trying to catch my breath, I realised that I had not settled on a single piece of Eukanuba brown. For a brief moment, I truly believed that it was some kind of cosmic intervention but was quickly reminded that I was simply the benefactor of some positive happenstance.

Alas, my luck ended only 2 feet from the top the dreaded Hill. The grass was simply too wet and the hill too steep to prevent the inevitable.

I began to slide down the hill in slow motion. Heals dug into the wet soil, fingers grabbing desperately on to tufts of freshly cut grass. Oh the horror, as I drifted downward, slowly collecting every pile of soggy beige dog shit.

On my hands, in the crucks of my arm pits and up inside my pant legs. It was like a coprophiliac's version of a Slip N' Slide. No area was spared.

20 minutes later, I was in the Mr. Gas parking lot in nothing but a pair Costco brand underwear getting hosed down by freezing cold water and trying not to make eye contact with any of the other crew members.

...and that's the story about the last time I ever took shit from anyone.

Black Market Life Lesson #889

2009-08-13T10:58:00.000-07:00

The solitaire who never took off his blue blockers died of jaundice. Learning to look at things differently, could one day save your life.

Dear Bump

2009-08-09T06:38:00.000-07:00

Dear Bump
I'm sorry that you're not out yet. We could have spent the morning watching a CNBC analyst talk about the intricacies of ice cream. I'm sure you would have enjoyed this, since it seems to be all your mom wants to eat.

This world is a fantastically odd place and you can be cheerful or curmudgeon about it. I suppose my job is to make you see the good in everything. I can do that. It's kind of my thing.

The hard part will be making sure that you'll never turn a blind eye to the bad.

The morning after I found out about you, I started writing an extensive list of everything I know about life. A handbook of sorts, that I hope to refer to as a refresher from time to time. I just want to get this right.

See you soon kid.

Ocean Fontaine

2009-08-06T06:18:00.000-07:00

If I were an exotic dancer, my name would be Ocean Fontaine.

My first song would be Lionel Richie's "Stuck On You". I would come out as the Hazmat Lady and instead of disrobing, I would put on a pair of industrial rubber gloves and a multi purpose respirator.

First I would swab the pole for samples. Then for my finale, I would scrub the floor incessantly and cordon off the area with yellow hazard tape.

For my second act, I would give up the goods.

I'd come out to Warren Zevon's "Werewolves Of London" and I would disrobe immediately to expose nothing but boy shorts and penny loafers.

I'd turn my back to the crowd and show off the word "Juicy" shaved into my lower back. Then I'd flex my butt cheeks in an alternating pattern. It would be mesmerising. Like an invisible midget pugilist, using my ass as a punching bag. Left hook. Right hook. Left hook. Right hook. Bam!

I would lay a blanket on the floor. This blanket would have a pool table, silkscreened on it. The edges carefully bedazzled by yours truly.

My act would consist of the "The Break", the "Scratch" and the excruciatingly painful "Brown ball Corner Pocket".

I would then roll over on all fours. With one hand holding my stomach in pain, I'd limp around the stage like a wounded Werewolf. Holding a penny loafer in my free hand, I would beg for change from the degenerates in pervert row.

Singing and crying at the same time.

Ahhhh Ewww Werewolves Of London.
Ahhhh Ewww Werewolves Of London.

With the change, I would buy a back-alley boob job.

2009-08-03T07:56:00.001-07:00

BLACK MARKET LIFE LESSON #664

Sometimes the only difference between a child and an adult is how many keys are on the chain. Just because responsibility is given, doesn’t mean it’s taken.

The W

2009-08-03T06:15:00.001-07:00

This is Hank.

This is the face Hank makes when he wants to go for a "W".

If you are a dog person, you understand that "W" means Walk. In fact you've probably conditioned yourself to never say the word. Last week, one of my clients asked me what I had planned for the weekend. "Nothing much, I think we'll be heading to Chelsea for a nice long W." I said without missing a beat. He laughed and asked me what kind of dog I had.

If you are not a dog person, here's something you should know should you consider getting one.

Dog's are assholes when it comes to the W. (Also known as Dub, W.A.L.K or Marche in the Stamina household. )

When in comes to the W. Dogs have a way of positioning themselves in your peripheral and staring at you with hurt in their eyes. If you manage to avoid the affixed gaze. They will sigh deeply until you've either given in or your cold black heart explodes.

Yesterday, my cold black heart exploded. As it does on virtually every sunny day. Even assholes don't like to walk in the rain. At least not Hank.

The thing about Hank is, despite being an asshole, he's a moment maker.

Yesterday we headed to the Gatineau Hills for a nice log W and I captured this shot.

Portrait of my hot pregnant wife walking my asshole dog

There are things in life for which we aspire. A loving wife. A dog. A child on the way. We create blurry images in our minds of what we think these things will look like.

Sometimes, if we're lucky, a photograph will capture these aspirations and bring the blurry images into crystal clear focus.

... and all because of my asshole dog.

Be back later. Gone for a W.

2009-07-29T08:43:00.000-07:00

Man eaters. The both of ‘em.

Darryl Hall tells me my kiss is on his list. Though we’ve never met, he speaks to me through the speakers of my wagon. I make it clear to him that I can’t go for that, no can do.

What can I say, I like the ladies. I’m into rich girls who rely on the old man’s money. It’s a love TKO … every time.

I pull over. Time to put liquid hay in the big metal horse. Still then, Darryl makes every attempt to woo me through the windows with his velveteen faux-town swagger. Johnny Oates echos his sentiment but I don’t believe him for a second. Like Alex Trebek and Magnum P.I. before him, nothing he says carries any weight without the mustache.

What can I say Oates, you're out of touch and I'm out of time. But alas… I'm out of my head when you're not around.

Damn you Oates. Damn you Hall. Damn you both to hell.

I may let your adult contemporary ballad rock fill my automobile… but I’ll be damned if anyone has to know about it.

2009-07-27T09:18:00.000-07:00

Black Market Life Lesson #121:

If you must fart, always do so in an area where the fart and those surrounding the fart have a way of escaping. Farting in confined areas can create a fight or flight response in the receiver causing undue stress and potential violence to all those involved. The unfortunate thing about a fart is that there is no scientific way of predicting just how offensive it will be until it’s too late. Avoid cars, elevators and cargo crates. Long flights are the exception to this rule. In this case, if a fart is imminent, wait until the beverage cart has passed and promptly blame it on the flight attendant.

2009-07-27T09:03:00.000-07:00

People ask me if i'm excited.

Does Peter Pan watch Tinkerbell shower? Likely.
Does Batman slide down the pole first just to get a good look at Robin's Poo-Nan? The Val Kilmer one, YES.
Do Panda's poope Oreo cookies? YES.
Had Freddy Krueger been able to masterbate without consequence, would he have killed anyone? YES. But after a nap.

2009-07-27T08:27:00.000-07:00

And so it shall be... The Staminas are expecting their first.

I see this little being floating around inside this beautiful wife of mine. Suddenly I think to myself, "Everything before this was just rehearsal wasn't it?"

Fridays...

2009-07-23T10:55:00.000-07:00

Doing a whole lout of nothing with Mrs. Stamina and Handsome on a friday afternoon is a lot like doing a whole lot of something.

Memories

2009-07-15T07:09:00.000-07:00

Who sneaks in $300 worth of liquor to an open-bar wedding? The Jetson's brother that's who.
My sister-in-law roled down a hill in her dress... on purpose.
Reffering to an Englishman as an Australian and yellin' "Gooday' Mate" all night, seemed a lot funnier at the time.
It turns out that Tommy Boy is a good movie to watch while getting ready for a wedding.
I caught a girl knitting during the speeches. When the speeches were over, she had half a scarf done. It was 30 degrees that day... but you never know when a blizzard might hit.
Who entices wedding patrons to sneak behind the tent and try some authentic moonshine? The Jetson's brother that's who.

2009-04-27T07:49:00.000-07:00

Black Market Life Lesson #339

2009-04-14T09:44:00.000-07:00

Throwing money at a problem is a lot like shitting in a toilet to stop it from overflowing. It presents you with a whole new set of problems.

2008-07-19T09:28:00.000-07:00

Huh...

Duhhh.... Buddies....

Somebody's gonna drop something... I just know it...

Layin out....

I am the destroyer of worlds...

Ladies can't resist this mug...

Penticton

2008-06-19T05:59:00.000-07:00

Dear Penticton,
Thank you for treating LBG and Team Awesome to a wonderful bachelor extravaganza. You are very nice this time of year. I enjoyed both of your lakes, despite their sub-zero temperature. I implore you to please do something about this, it was so cold little Jetson disappeared into his shell like a frightened turtle. With that said, your beach was nice. Not one used band-aid or dirty needle. Well done.

Penticton, thanks for all the personal touches you added to our trip. I enjoyed meeting the strippers at the Tim Hortons the next morning; it was nice to see that they’re people too.

Enjoying their coffee… fully clothed.

Thank you for allowing LBG to walk around in yellow fishnets and a pink tinsel sweater. Deep down he enjoyed it. Thank you also for crowning Sly Stamina as unofficial mayor of the city. He now knows all of your citizens by name and is well familiar with their back-story.

Kindest Regards,

Jetson

P.S. Your RV Park could use some cleaning up, maybe some patio lanterns or those lawn jockey statues that only I seem to find offensive.

2008-06-18T12:58:00.000-07:00

I have a shiner. A real nice black eye.

If you look at me neck-up from the right side... I look like a pre-op transvestite.

Awesome.

Too much time on my hands...

2008-04-30T08:26:00.000-07:00

Style vs. Warmth

2008-04-14T08:26:00.000-07:00

She’s late for work. She forgets her gloves. It’s cold. She runs back into the house to get her gloves. On her way to the bus stop she realizes that her gloves are not a matching pair. No time to run back home. Warmth prevails over style. She catches the bus and shakes her head at the folly.

It’s 4:30pm. Her shift is over. She waits at the bus stop with her mismatched pair of gloves. Glad that she ran back into the house this morning. Happy that warmth prevailed over style.

5pm. She gets off the bus. It’s cold. She reaches for her gloves.

No dice.

She turns around to see the bus putter away with her mismatched pair of gloves. Just like that, two perfectly good pairs of gloves… ruined.

She walks home. Hands buried deep in her pockets.

In the end... style prevailed over warmth.

Dog Poo Archeology

2008-04-11T09:45:00.000-07:00

Have been supplementing my fiber in take with Metamucil. I highly recommend this if you want to shit out gorilla fingers.
I saw I AM Legend last weekend. I kept hoping Uncle Phil would show up with an UZI with special zombie piercing bullets.
I like it here. I’d like to blog more. I’d like to have a lot more people read it and wonder… why did I just read that?
The snow is melting faster than the villain in Robocop who falls in toxic waste and then jumps in front of a car.
I spent a considerable amount of time last weekend getting reacquainted with the fascinating work of Dog Poo Archeology. The painstaking task of uncovering and bagging countless piles of dog crap remarkably well preserved under layers of Canadian snow.

Interobanged!

2008-01-16T07:08:00.000-08:00

Hey you! You might be wondering, what the hell just happened‽

Truth is…

You’ve been INTERROBANGED!

Oh Snap.

Brief History Of The Best Word Ever.

American Martin K. Speckter invented the interrobang in 1962. As the head of an advertising agency, Speckter believed that advertisements would look better if copywriters conveyed surprised rhetorical questions using a single mark. He proposed the interrobang (‽) A rarely used, nonstandard English-language punctuation mark intended to combine the functions of the question mark and the exclamation mark.