Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Swedish for divorce

Jack and I are currently testing the boundaries of our relationship. I mean, we renovating our den. (FYI: the construction aspect is okay but assembling the IKEA entertainment unit was in fact Swedish for DIVORCE!)

The den was a horribly disgusting room all around. It had a horrid carpet and horrid paint and horrid wall paneling. In a nutshell it was very seventies - but not in the cool retro way – more like that *blech, shabby, gross way. Mental image for you: baby blue paint + dismal grey carpeting that had seen better days and then we got a puppy (need I say more) + icky wood paneling + an ancient old sliding patio door that was essentially broken so you had ease it open inch by painful inch to get outside. Sound nice?

Jack’s parents got us started by coming over and installing the new garden doors that we had sitting in our garage for over a year waiting to be installed. Of course, the doors were then too nice for the room so we were forced (in a good way) to continue the process. We tore out the carpet, painted walls, and are now installing the new laminate flooring. So far so good, knock on um, laminated wood type surface.

But of course the house is now in complete shambles. Furniture and loads and loads of crap are stacked randomly all over the kitchen and living room. Add the mix two dogs and two kids to and well it equals complete and utter chaos. Thus far, our relationship is holding and we haven’t had too many “disagreements” while working side by side in one room for 3 days straight – with mallets & power tools & and sharp pointy things. It was tense there a few times but we pulled through. Ultimately, I had to accept that due to my “lack of experience” with anything related to construction, that I would have to be delegated a bunch of lame-ass, crap jobs. Like: pulling staples out of sub-flooring, being a human paperweight, holding and passing tools, and shop-vaccing saw dust and other debris. On the plus side, I got to wear foamy purple kneepads.

Now for a little payback, much to Jack’s chagrin, I have advised him that the furniture we had in that room may be no longer good enough to remain in that room. In fact, said furniture may have to be demoted to basement furniture status. Though Jack is strongly “encouraging” me not to go off on any wild shopping tangents – I may have to pick up a few new items to spruce things up a bit…

I have a credit card and a computer – that combo makes me a dangerous woman indeed (insert maniacal laugh.)

Wish us luck & I hope to have some pictures to share soon!

Friday, November 26, 2004

Not that I'm bitter...

I wish someone would have been kind enough to have explained to me that once I became a mother, that I would never be aloud to get sick EVER again. That would have been a nice little tid-bit of information to have been aware of. I could have at least prepared better – at the very least I might have begun a hearty vitamin regiment or gotten myself bubble to live in.

Recently, I was very ill with the flu. As you all know, the human body’s response to the flu virus is to FLUSH it out. For me this process was a complete evacuation of everything and anything that I had consumed during the past year at a very, very rapid rate. I will spare you the gory details, but I will say that at one point I passed out cold on the bathroom floor next to the toilet. I have to say, that it does kind of irritate me that I did not even have any of the hazy, drunken, speaker dancing memories to go along with all of the retching and bathroom floor sleeping experience. SO not fair! Oh, and a little FYI - it sucks WAY worse to be completely sober and heaving your guts out all night because you are simply more AWARE of every little nuance involved with the overall experience.

The next day I was terribly weak, shaky, achy, and even small sips of water evoked my gag reflex. Every time would attempt to stand, I would promptly break out in a cold sweat. As wave after wave of nausea hit me, my shaky legs could barely get me to the toilet fast enough to pay further homage to the porcelain gods.

Of course this timely experience happened when Jack was away at work. Just like when the pipes in the house burst, my car broke down, the hot water tank died and many other fun filled moments that I got to describe to Jack via voice mail on his cell phone – not that I’m bitter.
I suppose because crap like that happened and because I was forced to deal with said crap, that I am now a stronger woman because of it. A woman who, I might add knows where the water shut off valve is, how to light a pilot light, and how to use Jack’s air compressor. I am a little disgusted to admit that, I did not learn any of these handy skills at University. Can you believe that a forty thousand dollar education does not include one bloody class on what to do when water is gushing through your basement ceiling? Dammit! I want a refund!

Anyway back to my pity party - the next morning when I could barely stand up, I was quite dismayed when it became inherently obvious that the children still needed me for things like you know, surviving in this world for yet another day. *Sigh – the nerve of them, I know!

So exactly when do I get to suffer in peace? When do I get to lie down and have someone bring me medicine, glasses of water and dare I say even a bowl of soup? When do I get to do nothing except just recover? Well, apparently the answer is NEVER! NEVER, EVER AGAIN! Not that I am bitter, just wish I would have know that…

So now Jack is home from work and is currently and predictably sick with the flu.
It is probably not surprising to the other mothers out there that the extent of my sympathy for the man is as follows:

Aw hun, I’m sorry you are sick now take an Advil and get your ASS out of bed!

Hmm, apparently I may in fact be a little bitter.

Monday, November 22, 2004

Alberta Votes 2004

11 years we have now suffered!! PLEASE - let it end...
(Now I know what it feels like to be have been a Democrat in Texas.)

Sunday, November 21, 2004

If you can't say anything nice - just write it down and tape it to your door...

Friday, November 19, 2004

Mission Impossible

My mission on Sunday was simple: laundry, shopping, and of course play with my darling children. Because of reasons pertaining to national security I can only now finally disclose the events of Sunday November 14, 2004.

Stage 1
RE: Chipping away at the Mt. Everest of a laundry pile.
Status: Mission aborted.

On my third and final attempt to physically leave the childproofed family room that contained my children I managed to make it all the way to the laundry area. As I commenced the folding of the clothing ritual I heard a series of blood-curdling shrieks that actually shook the house and caused the dogs ears to bleed.

Naturally, I hurdled the three baby gates that separated me from the family room at an Olympic pace. My two-year old son Matthew was holding the torso of my daughter's favorite Mermaid Barbie doll in his right hand and the tail fin along with a bit of pink Mermaid Barbie doll hair in his left. As he showed me the carnage he stated "Oh-oh, bwoken." My daughter had sunk to her knees on the carpet and had begun flailing her arms dramatically over her head. "Why Mommy? Waahaahyy?!"

Obviously doing the laundry was proving to be to damn risky. I made the quick call to switch over to the main event of the day, the grocery shopping. It is amazing how a pot and a half of coffee mixed in with a little cabin fever will make you feel idiotically brave.

Stage 2
RE: Endure public humiliation while gathering foodstuff for my family.

I piled the kids into the car - the overall mood was eerily calm. We reached the Extra Foods supermarket incident free and all in high spirits. It wasn't until we were inside the store and had begun to proceed leisurely towards the produce aisle when things started to go horribly, horribly wrong.

Out of his peripheral vision, Matthew had spotted the cookie aisle. My futile efforts to distract him with my keys, cell phone, and every other item in my purse had been easily thwarted. Matthew's little body contorted and he began to bounce spastically and point his chubby arms in the cookie aisle direction. He soon realized that mom was still proceeding in the wrong direction away from the cookies. Matthew then upped the ante by trying to launch himself out of the little seat at the front of the shopping cart. During the struggle that ensued between us, his boots dropped to the floor with an ominous thud, thud. Because I was apparently not going to release him from the confines of his shopping car seat prison, the little devil spawn then decided to summon the dark side.

That is when the screaming began.

I was awed by the both the quality of pitch and timber of the sound that erupted like lava from out of the little mouth of my son. "WAAAANNNAAA COOOOKIE!"
I soon succumbed to the sheer loudness of the deafening noise and had to resort to desperate measures. Admitting defeat to the entire store, I opened a box of unpaid for cookies in front of the horrified group of onlookers who had gathered. I heard a few audible Tsks but the pregnant lady and her spouse who were picking out cake mix just stared at me, mouth agape. Welcome to your future people. That's right, take a good, long, hard look.

Immediately peace was restored.

I managed to actually pick out a few more items before I noticed the utter filth that was my post-cookie son. I am thoroughly amazed how one two year old, plus one Oreo cookie, plus the elapsed time of one minute, equals Armageddon. It seriously looked like he had been dunked in chocolate syrup and then gingerly rolled in coffee grounds. I am not sure how pieces of Oreo ended up in my hair, the little bugger must have flung cookie bits while I was reading the nutritional contents label on the pasta sauce. I retrieved my emergency stash of baby wipes from my purse and managed to swipe away most of the horror and pick the worst of the cookie globs out of my hair.

Shopping tentatively resumed.

The world came to an abrupt halt five minutes later when Emma shrieked a squeaky shriek that, once again, caused every other shopper in the vicinity to turn and gawk in our direction. Of course, they also kindly bestowed upon me a further assortment of disapproving glares. Reason for shriek: Emma had spotted the toy aisle. Immediately, Emma was as my side looking at me with those big, big, BIG eyes. I could deduce from that knowing look the she was sizing me up. As if on queue, with the skill and charisma of that guy who sells the spray-on-hair in a can on the shopping channel, Emma hit me with the dreaded sales pitch. "Mommmyyy? LOOK AT THIS!" The packaged doll she was holding up had a grotesquely sized head and appeared to be dressed up as a prostitute. I cringed. "MOM! These are AWESOME! Can I have this one little thing? PLEASE? Rebecca has one!" The fate of her childhood obviously depended entirely on this purchase. I would undoubtedly scar her for life if I were to deny her. She then closed her routine with a good rendition of the "All of my friends have them"number. I half expected the other shoppers to call out for an encore - her performance was that good. So basically, our entire mother daughter relationship was teetering on this life altering decision. Oddly enough, the decision was made quickly as I noticed that the price tag on the misshapen hooker displayed the outrageous price of $49.99.
Upon hearing the verdict, Emma stood there with a look of pure disbelief on her face. "You are SO mean and I wish you were not my mom!" She bellowed. The ladies standing by the fabric softener gasped. Emma was fast reaching my breaking point and I had had enough. I growled from between clenched teeth "Listen little girl, you had better go put back that doll pronto, MOMMY is at her wits end with you both right now. You had better..."

That is when the bomb dropped.

Emma, being at shopping cart height smelled it first. Then, the stench that oozed from out of my son (who had been unusually quite) wafted up and slapped me hard in the face. I felt my sinuses shrivel up inside my face and my eyes burned. I knew in my heart that Matthew had just delivered the mother of all poops. Indeed, the little guy looked quite pleased with himself and started acting downright giddy. The putrid aroma was, if anything, impressive. I would liken this nasal experience, that had rolled in like thick fog, to a slew of bloated skunk corpses piled high atop a mountain of garbage that had of course been festering in 90-degree heat for at least three weeks. I gagged. I dry heaved a few times and out of desperation tried to envision Joe Rogan from Fear Factor screaming that I could handle it and not to puke! Somehow I managed to regain my composure. It was then that Emma announced to the store in a voice loud enough that someone could have done a price check on it, "UGH! MOM! Matthew really stinks! P.U.!!"

Panicked, I began to aimlessly pull random items off the shelves and put them in my cart - as long as it met the criteria of edible I no longer cared. At one point I nearly passed out, but my instincts were telling me to keep moving, just keep moving. The group of people ahead of us began to anxiously sniff the air with disgusted and pinchy looking expressions on their faces. I overheard one elderly woman's plea of "Doris do you smell that? Dear LORD! That has to be worse than that time my Jimmy ate that jar of spoiled sauerkraut!" Unfortunately, I could not do anything to save the poor people who were caught in our wake. Caught unawares, they did not even have a fighting chance. When our tailwind blind sided them, they dropped like flies.

Finally, through the hazy stench, I glimpsed the checkout counter through squinty watery eyes. It was almost over. Thank God.

Let me just say that I have never in my life had a cashier at a grocery store be faster and more efficient then Extra Foods cashier Darla was when we oozed into her checkout lane. She sped through my produce punching in a flurry of item codes without hesitation, like it was her shot at the gold. I noticed during her rapid-fire grab and scan movements that she was leaning back in an attempt to conserve precious oxygen. Like the seasoned veteran she was, Darla risked only one quick breath per every five items bleeped across the scanner.

I was not overly surprised when neither Darla the cashier, nor the James the bag boy extended to me a token Have a nice day or offer me a hand out with my groceries. The bastards.

Status: Mission completed - casualties unknown.

Thursday, November 18, 2004

Nope - just Matthew nine months olds.

Elton John?

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Where's the beef?

Jack’s uncle has a farm and on the farm he has some cows. With a moo, moo here and a moo, moo there, here a moo... Ah, never mind.

Any way, Jack’s uncle recently butchered a cow and the meat from said cow was split up amongst the family. First let me just say that we like meat in here in Alberta – apologies to the PETA people in advance but being a vegetarian in Alberta is apparently kind of like being gay in Texas. We even have bumper stickers that say “I Heart Alberta Beef.” We like beef that much (except my mother brings shame to the family with her evil veggie burger eating ways.) Anyway, Jack’s parents brought over about 150 pounds (one – five-oh!) of beef to my house last week. So if anyone really wants to know where the beef is, I will gladly show him or her to my deep freezer. I have steaks, hamburger, roasts, and ribs – I got it all baby. Ah life is good!
Thanks to Jacks parents and I just want to add that people who will deliver 150 pounds of meat to your house are very good people indeed.

So to Caesar the head landing Cockatiel – you are one lucky bird. It seems that I have some beef to get through before you end up in my oven!

Saturday, November 13, 2004

The Migraine Toy

Every household with children has one. The most annoying toy ever designed and probably crafted by Satan himself in the deepest, darkest bowels of hell. I call this gift to humanity, the migraine toy. The migraine toy currently infesting our happy home is my daughter Emma’s toy cellular phone.

I cannot emphasize enough how truly evil this thing is. This toy cell phone has actively chipped away at my sanity for the past 234 days now. On occasion, this toy has even reduced me to a blubbering wreck that has needed a stiff shot of whiskey at 9:00am.
Now, out of self-preservation, whenever I hear the following verbal queue: “Mommy! Have you seen my cell phone?” I immediately proceed to the bathroom (where there is Tylenol) lock the door, and curl up in the fetal position on the cool damp bath mat.

Not only does this toy cell phone light up in a spectacular seizure inducing way, but it is also conveniently voice activated. This toy can indeed be brought to life by noises such as clearing one’s throat, stepping on that creaky spot in the floor, and blinking. The toy plays a myriad of obnoxious life-like ringing tones and will even simulate actual conversations. The conversations are actually a variety of recorded greetings in dismal accents so annoying that they will make you want to chip away at your forehead with a rusty butter knife. Oh – and one final important detail. There is NO VOLUME CONTROL. Any sound emitted from this lobotomy in a box is at an inner ear pulverizing decibel. The sheer loudness of this toy will cause every neuron in ones body to simultaneously fire. The effects of this varies from person to person, but usually include varying degrees of spasming, hyperventilation, and of course ye ol’ faithful migraine. Studies have yet to be preformed but I would hazard a guess that prolonged exposure to this toy will eventually lead to paralysis, coma, and death.

Naturally this is my daughter Emma’s favorite toy in the entire world.

Unfortunately, now that she is seven the battery removal “Oh too bad it’s broken” technique no longer works. Ah well – Jack and I had a good run with that one.
Sadly, Emma is all too familiar with the magic of batteries. Because she is such a smart cookie, she also knows that when the batteries in this toy from hell begin to run out, that fresh ones can be borrowed from other toys, the television remote control, the garage door opener and the smoke detectors.

So basically all we can do is hide the damn thing and pray that the novelty wears off as quickly as it did with the Pixtar. Please God let it end.

Conversation overheard by me while hiding in the bathroom between Emma & her daddy.

BRRRRRRRRRIIING, BRRRRRRRRRIIING, HELLO IS ANYBODY HOME?

Jack (groan): Oh Emma – not the cell phone…
Emma (sing-song voice): Da-ddy, Somebody wants to talk to you!

Jack (grumble): Hello? Yeah, could you please call Emma back after lunch? Kay thanks. Bye-bye.

DADDOOOO, DADOO! DOO, DOO, DOO! HOWDY PARTNER!!

Emma: Da-ddy! It’s SOMEBODY else now. Daddy, say hi!
Jack (grumpy): Hello? Ok, Emma needs to eat her breakfast now – you wouldn’t want her to get in trouble and have to have a time out right? Okay? Bye-bye.

Emma (shrill): Daddy! That’s not polite telephone manners!
Jack (steely voice): Emma, how about we put the cell phone away until after breakfast okay honey? Daddy needs a little quiet time to finish his coffee and read the newspaper.

BLLLEEEEEEEEEPP, BLIPPITY BLEEP! AHOY MATEY!

Emma (excited): Daddy! Guess what? The newspaper people are ON THE PHONE!
Jack: Hello? Okay, they say they need to talk to mommy right away. Why don’t you go tell her that the phone is for her?

Emma: Can’t! Mommy is in the bathroom and the door is locked.
Jack: UGH! She beat me to it.

DDDEEEEEEEEDOOOO! DEEEEEDOOO! LIKE HI, DO YOU WANT TO COME TO A DANCE PARTY?

Emma: DADDY! Don’t you want to go dancing?
Jack (voice rising): Emma I asked you to put away the toy. Now don’t make me ask again!

BLIP, BLIP, BLIP! BLEEP, BLEEEEEEEEP! YO DUDE WASSUP?

Jack (loud): For the love of God Emma! Please, please put away the phone or daddy will have to break it!!

Emma (tapping phone against table): Daddy, you can’t break this - it is hard plastic!
Jack (cold scary voice): Oh Really? I think daddy’s hammer could break that phone. Why don’t we go get daddy’s toolbox and find out?

Silence.

Emma (sulky): Fine, I will talk on my phone more later. GEEZ!

Friday, November 12, 2004

Bet you can't eat just one.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

The Awful Truth

Parenting is NOT all smiley, happy, golden moments.
(Please refer to pictures posted below.)

There are in fact a plethora of whiny, crabby, and grumpy moments sprinkled throughout the day in the life of your average family. The children will pick the time, place, and duration of these moments. That makes us, the parents, somewhat like weathermen trying to predict and prepare for the events that will unfold. Let me tell you, even the most seasoned and yes perhaps even slightly psychic weatherman can be blindsided good and hard by a freak snowstorm in July.

In my house, no matter how many Dr. Phil techniques are employed - at any given moment, I generally have at least one of the children (and usually one dog) actively in one of the following states of: whiny, grumpy, and crabby.

The real fun begins when a grouping of the states occur and then I can get a combination of states in one or (god forbid) both of my children (ex. whiny & crabby.) If all three states occur a tantrum will erupt.
To recap: the place, duration, and time of the combination of states moment will be chosen by the child, BUT NOW because the situation has been elevated to tantrum level, the ferocity of the tantrum will vary from around 2.5 on the Richter scale to complete and total annihilation of the world as we know it. I know it's scary, but some children are indeed that good.

For those of you free-timers (kidless people) out there who are thinking of populating the world with your DNA, please be advised that all children have the this tantrum capability. Also known as the dark side. If you expect that your future child(ren) will be perfectly behaved, well groomed, will match the decor of your house, and will never throw a tantrum at the grocery store - well, you my friend are living in a fantasy world. Get some fish and take up yoga instead.

Anyway, in my house said the dark side is revealed, more often than not, during what I like to refer to as suicide hour (between 5:00-6:00pm.) Even the best of planning and distraction techniques cannot fully eliminate the horror show that is suicide hour.

Now, what makes this time period even more challenging, is that fact that you are trying to also accomplish some important parenting duties.

First off, to get a healthy dinner on the table - hopefully some of which the children will actually eat. Then comes the general dinnertime duties such as: cleaning spills, wiping stuff, fetching more juice, and retrieving dropped utensils (Note: if you get to eat as well AND your meal is still warm - you are eligible bonus points and a trophey or something.)
Then of course, the leftovers and various condiments need to be put away.
After this there are dishes to be done. Usually followed by homework. Then, finally - bathtime where you can only hope and pray that most of the marker, food and other unidentifiable smudges decorating your children will easily scrub off.

If any of the above events do not occur, well - you are a BAD mother. It's true.
Hey - don't get mad at me, I didn't make up the rules.

*** I just thought I should add a dose of reality among my happy, golden moment, smiley pictures from earlier posts to remind myself that this parenting stuff is bloody hard work. Yeah, yeah and it's rewarding too...
I love my kids, I love my kids, (deep breath,) I love my kids.

Well I am off to make lunches for tomorrow - possibly the worst of the daily chores right there - ask any parent.

Grumpy

Crabby

Whiny

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Pet Etiquette 101

I have a big dog and a goofball puppy. I am fully aware that when someone knocks at the door or God forbid, rings the doorbell, the dogs go insane and charge to the door and will want to lavish whoever is behind the door with all sorts of insane doggy attention. I am also aware that not all people are dog lovers, especially if they are big dogs and crazy hyper puppies. So, out of consideration for these people, as well as my own sanity, I generally put the dogs outside when I have or am expecting guests. (If you drop-by unannounced, well, you take your chances. I would call first.) I guess I feel that it is somewhat impolite to inflict the people who I invite into my home with spazy face lickings, flying fur, and attempted crotch sniffings. If my guest asks to play with the dogs then I will bring them in. BUT I think it is good pet etiquette to at least offer the choice. (Please note that this rule does not apply to my parents, Jack's parents, his sister and her husband, and my friend Holly - you people will just have to deal with my dogs and my children - um, sorry it's a package deal.)

Okay for the cat people, I for one do not like to be accidentally shot with a squirt bottle because I happened to be in the line of fire when your cat was caught red handed on the countertop. But aside from that one time I had to walk around with a big wet spot on my blouse, I don't have a problem with cats. (Unless their is an obvious litterbox odor.) Cats seem to have that innate ability to blend into their environment. Most of the time, I don't even realize is a cat in the house - the people who are allergic to cats will be able to tell you right away though...

I do however have a bone to pick with the bird people.

Granted, I am obviously not a bird person, I don't really understand why a person would want a bird as a pet to begin with, and they just kind of freak me out in general. Anyway, my issue with the bird people, and I think others would agree, is that I really find it irritating when you have your bird just flying around your house and expect your guests to be okay with this situation. Some might consider this really bad pet etiquette. You see, it is simply really hard to have a conversation when there is a bird flapping and squawking around your face. In fact, the flapping and squawking tends to make concentrating on anything except the flapping and squawking virtually impossible. I would also like to add that I for one especially take offense when the bird then takes an obscene liking to my hair. I do not enjoy having a bird sit on my head at any time, anywhere, for any reason. It makes me feel violated and dirty and I don't think that is how you want the guests at your dinner party to feel. Bird people, my advice to you let's say when hosting a dinner party, is simply that you may want to put your damn bird in its damn cage, is all I'm saying.

Side note to Caesar the Cockatiel: You had better watch it bird! The next time you use my head as a landing pad I will open the front door and give you a little more room to stretch you wings. HA!

I think that I will have chicken for dinner tonight.
Mmm... Barbeque chicken.

Saturday, November 06, 2004

Let sleeping dogs lie Posted by Hello

Thursday, November 04, 2004

Operation Snow Shoe

There was a movie made a while back called Canadian Bacon. The one with John Candy, where the U.S. declares war against Canada due to a minor misunderstanding. Okay, I also thought it was kind of silly at the time. But, since the Americans have now voted 51% to re-elect George W. Bush for another four years, well I must admit I am quite concerned.

* During Bush's first term in office he actually convinced the good people of the United States to declare war against the wrong man, invade the wrong country because of some alleged weapons of mass destruction that may have never actually existed. All the while, convincing US Citizens that the United Nation must be corrupt because the UN required, you know, actual proof of the alleged weapons of mass destruction.

It's all just mind-bungling really. So people, I am building my bunker now, my contractor is coming tomorrow with some quotes. Fellow Canadians, I urge you to do the same - because I think Canada may be next on ol' Bush's chopping blocks!

Seriously valid reasons why Bush is NOW considering a war against Canada:
(Dubya's pronunciation: Can-Nada)

1. Like Iraq, Can-Nada also has oil. It's just sitting there. I mean c'mon y'all, say it with me. Less sand more oil! Less sand more oil!

2. Osama Bin Laden (a.k.a. the bad guy) is also NOT in Canada thus obviously making Can-Nada my next prime target. That there's just a no-brainer.

3. I'm still right pissed as a bull during castratin' season because ol' Can-Nada opted out of my "Coalition Of The Willing" idear. Even though they did say "Um, No thank you" very cordially and we did already have Uzbekistan on board, I still find the whole mess right irritatin'.

4. I already know I can whoop Can-Nada's big fat maple leaf ass! I mean their military is just so gosh darn Simple-Simon-like and actin' all like they wanna be our janitorial crew or something. It just freaks me out that they seem so concerned all the time about cleaning up any slight messes I may have left behind on occasion. They just don't git that being President is such hard work - and that it requires some tough decisions! Wouldn't y'all know it, that is what the Saudis have been telling me all along.

5. Can-Nada is just a chalk full of them pot smoking, high-test beer drinking, touque wearing, multicultural accepting, gay marriage allowing, pro-choice heathens who simply must be obliterated. Why? Because God told me so!

6. I already have the best invasion name picked out - get this: Operation Snow Shoe! Ugh, dang-it that's not right. Oh yeah! Operation Snow Storm! Now c'mon whose on board? That there just makes you wanna shoot some nukes don't it?

7. My attempted brain washing assimilation initiatives "Operation When Fox Attacks" and "Operation The Simple Life," have yet to show much damage against them wily Canadians due to their infuriating need for critical thinking and rational thought. No matter - it's nothin' that a few of my smart bombs won't fix.

8. They already had that one mad cow! And dammit if those freaky Can-Nadian cows just don't give me the willies! I grew up on a ranch, so I know all about how lethal them mad cows really are! Hee-hee - Nev'r mind we'll just bomb 'em all.

9. They have all those "Kay-becker" French people and Ize just Hates them French Speakin' Varmmit. It's Wabbit Season! I mean *ahem* War on Can-Nada!

10. My daddy is bigger than their daddy!

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