I Like Big Jokes, and I Cannot Lie

There sure are a LOT of songs on the radio these days that aren’t really suitable for children, aren’t there? One day I’m going to write a post on all of the child-inappropriate pop songs that I’ve had to explain to Baby Girl, but for today, I’m going to only discuss the gem by Sir Mix-A-Lot called “Baby Got Back.”

Love it or hate it, for those of us like myself who have got some serious junk in the trunk, the opening line of “I LIKE BIG BUTTS, and I cannot lie!” has become a bit of an ego-boosting anthem. It has always put a smile on my face, even though the rest of the lyrics are sexually gross, objectifying and misogynistic.

So it was rather ironic when today, driving in the car, this particular song came on and I instinctively turned it up and crowed out the opening lyrics in my shouty-singy voice.

I immediately realized the folly of this action. With Baby Girl listening intently in the back seat, I was prepared for questions along the lines of “Why does he like big butts, mommy?” and “What does he mean by that?” which are the usual awkward queries I have to field as a result of banishing kid-diddys when she was only two.

Instead, I got a treat – an unexpected peek at her emerging brilliant and subtly sarcastic humour:

Does the guy singing this song know you, mommy?

The layers of humour buried in that statement made me proud, despite the fact that she was basically telling me I have a fat ass.

There was an intentionality to her humour that signalled her growing awareness of the world at large and how to make fun of it.

Sometimes her comments strike me in the worst possible way. Like the time she told me my bum makes a wave every time she touches it. THAT was unintentionally ego-crushing.

Or like the time she was splashing around in the bath and I had disrobed to grab a quick shower simultaneously. She sized up my nekked carcass and matter-of-factly stated “You look nice with your clothes ON, mommy.”

Not “nicer.” Just “nice” – because “nicer” would have been an obvious insult.

I may not like my butt being the butt of so many of her jokes, but I do know she is quickly learning what makes me laugh.

And I love it.


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The Oscars Are Getting With The Program!

Everyone who knows me knows that I love movies and look forward to the Oscars for months before they arrive.

This year, it was SO worth the anticipation!

Ellen DeGeneres was a superb host.  Funny, without being mean, lively, but annoyingly so, and the best part?  SO interactive with the celebrity audience.

Smart woman – she knows we don’t tune in just to watch her for 3.5 hours, as amazing as she is.

Here are my Top Ten things that I LOVED about yesterday’s Oscars:

1.  The dresses – well, DUH!  Isn’t that a huge reason why many tune in? When I see gorgeous celebrities wearing long sleeves and demure necklines, just for a few moments, I can actually pretend that I too could rock a gown like that. Last night the gowns were conservative and downright plentiful in fabric, for the most part, which gives my wobbly bits such hope for when I walk the red carpet.

2.  Anne Hathaway wearing a metallic-breastplated dress to avoid Nipplegate, Part 2.  Not sure if it was intentional, but I’m going to assume it was her classy raised middle finger to last year’s media frenzy erected by her dress and what it didn’t hide.

3.  Pharrell performing “Happy”.  Children dancing on the stage.  Pharrell gettin’ funky with Lupita, Meryl and Amy.  Pharrell getting everyone up on their feet shakin’ it.  Loved it – best performance of the night.

4.  The number of speeches that thanked MOMS.  Jared Leto AND Matthew McConaughey both did – so nice to see grown men pay such tribute to their mothers.  Also loved the tears that appeared when Matthew spoke of his wife and children – take notes, gentlemen in training!

5.  Bette Midler singing.  Love her or hate her – that woman can sing.  And that she did, superbly well.  I loved that she sang the song I danced to with my dad at BOTH of my weddings!

6.  The speeches were not long, boring, drawn-out, or containing political diatribes.  Yes, a few held political or social commentary, but it was like everyone understood that it wasn’t the time or the place for the soap box, and sometimes, just a mention is all you really need to make people think.

7.  Ellen ordered pizza, had it delivered and passed it out to the celebrity audience.  With celebrities helping serve it up!  Have you ever seen anything that cool, fun or original in recent Oscar shows?  Also, who was the last host to break Twitter by posting a selfie with her and 10 celeb peeps?  Need I say more?

8.  Joseph Gordon Levitt, whom I could love on a standalone basis, but he also reminded me of my boyfriend from senior year in high school – their resemblance is uncanny, to be honest, although I have no idea what the former flame looks like now, so I’ll stick with my memory.  Or JGL.  Refer also to Jonah Hill – that cutie-pie just makes me smile, even when he doesn’t say a word.

9.  I agreed with almost all of the award choices – I might have chosen a different Best Director and different Animated Feature, but everything else I completely agreed with – that NEVER happens!

10.  DIVERSITY.  Black nominees, in more than one category.  Black attendees – more than just a couple token uber-famous black celebrities in the crowd.  A movie about slavery won Best Picture and Best Screenplay.  An intelligent, talented black woman won Best Supporting Actress.  A black man gave the best performance of the show.  Sidney Poitier on stage to remind us all who got the ball rolling for black people in Hollywood.  The Academy is starting to realize that perhaps diversity has been lacking in their club, and it’s nice to see some signs of this changing.  Would I have liked to see more diversity? Of course, but starting somewhere is better than stagnancy.

Keep it up, Hollywood, you did it all right last night.

My creative stepson made this!

My creative stepson made this!

Thanks for reading my blog! Did you like this post? Feel free to share it, if you did. Also, if you’d like to hear more from me, slide over to the right side of your screen and “Like” my Facebook page and follow me on Twitter – yes, that’s right – stalk me!

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25 Reasons Why I’m Not Hip, and Probably Never Will Be

Baby Girl came home from school last week singing “It’s hip to be a square”, which on one hand, made me laugh because it’s a terrible old song that somebody was witty enough to turn into a shape-teaching tool, yet on the other hand, made me think about how un-hip I am. In so many ways.

Let me run down a few of them for you:
1. I don’t eat quinoa. I may try it one day, but probably long after it’s not hip anymore.

2. I use the “kids in a sandbox” approach to making adult friends – I actually invite people to have coffee if I think they’re cool, or I may even invite them to my house or out for lunch. Sometimes I even do this after only meeting someone once, briefly. Aloof is not my area of expertise.

3. I worry that people are mad at me or don’t like me for some reason (yes, even people I’ve never met) if they don’t reply to my tweets. I want people to like me and feel bothered if they don’t. But only if I like them, of course.

4. I don’t watch SOA, Downton Abbey, Mad Men, Orange is the New Black, or any other TV (with the exception of the quality programming found on ABC’s Revenge, The Weather Network, CBC news or CP24). In related news – we don’t even have Netflix.

5. I’m not on Pinterest, Instagram, StumbleUpon, Tumblr, Vine, LinkedIn or any other social media than Facebook and Twitter.

6. I wear Crocs in my house. All the time, as slippers. Sometimes even when people come over.

7. I like typing on a laptop more than a tablet or smart phone. I like buttons more than a flat screen image of a keyboard. I actually miss my old Blackberry.

8. I like ending conversations of any sort (yes, even on social media) with some traditional form of pleasantry like “Bye!” or “Talk to you later!” or “Have a great day!” instead of just leaving a discussion dangling in the wind with no closure.

9. I double space after periods. That’s how I was taught to type back in 1984, so I will not apologize for learning it well.

10. I don’t find humour in people getting the shit scared out of them, or people getting the beats (not the Dr Dre kind) or imitations of people with physical or mental challenges.

11. I don’t do any sports that I can talk about on social media. I don’t do any sports that I can talk about anywhere. Ok, I don’t do any sports.

12. I wear my pyjamas under my yoga pants to drive Baby Girl to school. And pick her up.  I remove the yoga pants for the hours in-between.

13. Kale revolts me. And yes, I’ve tried kale chips.

14. I have 3 cats. I adore them and I’m not ashamed to admit that. I post pictures of them online, and convince myself that I am not a crazy cat lady because I draw the line at owning clothes with animal pics on them, or having little animal chachkies around my home.

15. I am verbose. Why say it in one sentence, when you can use five or six? I joined Twitter to practise limiting my words to 140 characters. #EpicFail.

16. I follow people back on Twitter if they follow me and they’re not trying to sell me more followers, don’t have a profile that’s in a language I don’t read or speak, don’t have an egghead profile picture with 1 tweet and 254,592 followers or don’t give me the heebeegeebees for some reason.

17. I respond to almost all of the comments on my blogs – good or bad, almost all tweets to me that aren’t weird or rude or trying to sell me stuff, and all emails that aren’t from spambots or marketing firms trying to buy ad space on my blog.

18. I feel awkward talking about my experiences with depression, so I don’t. I don’t judge those that do – in fact I may have a bit of envy that they are comfortable sharing, but I’m not. I’m not ashamed, I just can’t do it. Yet, at least.

19. I put myself “out” there. I comment on blogs of people I don’t know, I tweet to strangers.

20. I still get zits.  I still refer to them as zits.

21. I didn’t dig the Kendrick Lamar/Imagine Dragons mash-up at the Grammys. I’d never heard of half of the nominees at the Grammys.

22. I constantly worry about my phone battery dying because I don’t own one of those little portable battery charger packs.

23. I get manicures biweekly, but my eyebrows resemble Frida Kahlo’s. I cut and colour my hair 3 times per year, and I’m fastidious about my pits, but I declare a moratorium on leg-shaving between November and April to avoid wearing long-johns. Don’t even ask about the equator zone, unless I will be sporting a swimsuit the next day. Basically, I’m a confused sasquatch.

24. I don’t dig zombies.

25. I’m not fake. I’m a sincere, loyal and sometimes overly-friendly person. Most of the time I’m pretty content being just who I am – hip, or not.

Bonus Addendum: I can’t believe I forgot about this in the original post, but that’s just another testament to how unhip I really am: I don’t play Candy Crush.

Thanks for reading my blog! Did you like this post? Feel free to share it, if you did. Also, if you’d like to hear more from me, slide over to the right side of your screen and “Like” my Facebook page and follow me on Twitter – yes, that’s right – stalk me!

You may also like reading my blog posts at Conceived in my Heart on YummyMummyClub.ca – check it out!

The Tale of Mavis the Mother Raccoon

Have I ever told you about Mavis?  No?   Well, grab a coffee and have a read:

Two years ago, in June, I finally had an opportunity to see one of my favorite musicians in concert – Sade.  John Legend was opening for her.  Two very sexy singers, so Huzbo and I decided to book a hotel room in the city and spend the night there after the concert.


It was one of the most memorable dates Huzbo and I have been on ever, even including our courtship.  We woke up at an hour that was not obscene and figured we would check in with my parents, who were caring for our kids at our house.

Stepson picked up the phone on the first ring, and the excitement in his voice was carnival-quality:

“WE HAVE A RACCOON WITH BABIES ON OUR BALCONY!!!”  he practically sprang through the phone.

What.  The.  Hell.

The aftermath glow from our dream date the night before quickly slithered out the door as my parents confirmed that yes, a neighbour had rang our bell that morning and advised my parents that she had watched a raccoon crawl up our drainpipe and scuttle into the small, half-wall-enclosed balcony at the front of our house, accessible from our guest bedroom.  My parents also confirmed that from what they could see through the window, the raccoon did indeed appear to have some babies sleeping with her.

Huzbo, being in the home reno business, was beside himself.  He had been contracted many times to repair damage done by raccoons entering houses for winter hideaways, some residing there long enough to make serious damage repairs necessary.

We rushed home and peered out the window overlooking the balcony.  There, snuggled tight to the wall beneath us, were the mother raccoon and her four babies.  Very, very new babies; they had no fur and no open eyes.  Babies so new that they only nursed and slept and did not move.

Shhh. Mavis liked to have a puff or two after a hard night's foraging.

Shhh. Mavis liked to have a puff or two after a hard night’s foraging. (We don’t. That was left from a guest who did.)

We had no idea what to do.

For the next few days, the raccoon family become our main focus.  The kids wanted to look at them all the time. I was researching ways to relocate them in a humane way, while simultaneously falling in love with how cute they all were, even when the mama growled and hissed at me the few times I cracked open the door to quickly stick my phone out and snap pictures of her.  Suffice to say our cats became borderline obsessive about sitting on the inside of the window, keeping a territorial watch on this invasive critter.


Why yes, that is a chunk of my ear missing. Don’t. Mess. With. Me.

Our local wildlife control agencies were of no use.  They wouldn’t move a mom with babies, and even if she was childless, they would only move the animal to the nearest natural habitat, which happened to be only 500 meters down the street, as we live near a ravine with a creek and wooded area.  The raccoon would surely find her way back without asking for directions.

I contacted several wildlife authorities, asked for suggestions on Facebook (with far too many of them promoting harm to the creatures) and even considered a friend’s offer to borrow a cage and cart them two hours away for relocation myself.

But we couldn’t do it.  Four innocent babies and their mama, who thought she was doing the right thing by finding such a great, safe shelter to birth her babies and care for them, needed a place to stay.

So they stayed, at least for a while.  Raccoons are nocturnal, especially nursing mothers, so we would watch them snooze the day away, and then watch as mama waited for darkness to fall and climb down the drainpipe to forage for food to eat and keep her milk flowing for the hungry babies.  News spread of our visitors and neighbours began to stop by to be led upstairs to have a peek out the window at our new residents.

The kids were thrilled, of course, and kept asking to name the mother.  My brother suggested Mavis, and somehow it stuck.  Mavis began to know me, as I was home the most and therefore my face was the one appearing most often at her window into human life. She would sometimes sit on the outside ledge of the window while I observed her.  Once she even raised her paw and pressed it to the glass when I did the same with my hand.  We were becoming friends, and my husband began to panic that the next phase of our relationship would involve me feeding her.


I will get you to feed me and my babies with all my furry cuteness…


Does that human not know it’s rude to watch someone sleep?


Huzbo had no interest in friendship with Mavis.  He had already seen the pieces of weather stripping she had torn from the outside of the balcony door.  He warned me daily to not feed her – oh how well he knows me!

He began to really push for relocation and as much as I was growing fond of Mavis and her little crew, I knew they couldn’t stay.  One day, I came across a site in the US that advertised a sure-fire way to get rid of raccoons.  Especially female raccoons.  With babies.

They were selling male raccoon pee.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Turns out that male raccoons are actually predators of baby raccoons, so the mamas will run a mile to avoid those males, once she bears the fruit of their loins.  Also turns out that mama raccoons rarely give birth without having a local back-up den, in the event that their birthing hideaway is invaded.  Invaded by humans with $80/ounce of male raccoon wiz, that is.

The package arrived a couple days later, a small plastic bottle about the size of a travel shampoo container.   But the stench of it was much bigger.  Huzbo opened it in the garage with gloves on, and I could still smell it in our house.  Personally, I don’t think the females are afraid of the males themselves – I think they just can’t bear the stink of them!

That night, Huzbo soaked a tennis ball with the junk and had to walk it through the house in a bucket to get it to the balcony.  He didn’t want to take the risk of attempting to throw the ball up to the second-storey balcony and miss its mark, leaving the ball to ricochet and spray the stench everywhere.

We knew Mavis had left for grocery shopping, so Huzbo quickly tossed the pee-soaked ball out the balcony door and closed the door. We waited.  And waited.  She didn’t come back for hours and we finally went to bed. In the morning we rushed to the window to see if they had packed their bags and vacated.

There were Mavis and her little family curled up snoring with the tennis ball sitting six inches away from them.


My apologies for the high-quality Blackberry photos through a window.

Huzbo tried again that night, with two tennis balls, more heavily saturated with that disgusting odour than the night before.

Mavis and family were still there when we awoke.

However, Mavis was wide awake.  This was new — normally she was fast asleep in the morning after a busy night of scavenging for food.  She also seemed agitated and was pacing a little, no doubt from the hairs inside her nose slowly burning off from the pungency of the tennis balls.

Did one of you kids toot?

Did one of you kids toot?

Clearly she was reconsidering this particular labour and delivery ward, so to further convince her of its inappropriateness,  I grabbed a radio and plugged it in right beside the door to the balcony, turned on a rap/hip-hop station and cranked the volume to max.  Raccoons loathe rap and hip-hop, you see.  Actually, they loathe any type of loud noise.

Within an hour, Mavis had grabbed one of her babies in her mouth and had scurried down the drain and through our backyard, under the fence.  No doubt heading to the green space nearby and the quiet, odourless sanctuary of her back-up den.

Except she didn’t return for her other three helpless orphans.  All day.

By late afternoon, I was frantic.  I began researching how to feed and raise baby raccoons, while Huzbo began to research how to institutionalize his wife.  I was committed to attending a party that night, but went with a heavy heart and my phone in hand, waiting for Huzbo to text me the minute Mavis returned to collect her treasures.

Thankfully, she finally did.

We’ve never seen her since, and I think Huzbo deliberately left those tennis balls that are still sitting out there to this day as a warning to her or any other raccoons looking for a warm, safe shelter.

Wait 'til she tells you the story of the robin that built a nest over her front door...

Wait ’til she tells you the story of the robin that built a nest over her front door…

If you liked this post, please swing over to the right side of your screen and follow my blog, so you get my new posts directly in your email inbox. While you’re there, why not also click the “Like” button for my Facebook fan page and hit the “Follow @PapayaJambalaya” button to follow me on Twitter? Yeah, that’s right – go ahead – stalk me. It’s all good. If you’re already stalking me or are going to -Thank you!

The Disappearance of Halloween

Today’s post was a toss-up between a Halloween mini-rant, or another installment of “She Said, He Said” but I figured my marriage drama could wait a day or two, perhaps to gain a little perspective.  Stay tuned for that one…

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Last night on Twitter, I read about how a school had cancelled Halloween.   Then another woman tweeted today the same about her child’s school, in another province.

What the Ghoulish Goblin Guts???

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I am still astounded by this.  Cancel Halloween?  Are these some weird military schools churning out kids with zero sense of fun?

The explanation, apparently, is that:

a)  Some families don’t participate in Halloween, whether because of cultural or religious reasons

b)  Some kids come from families that can’t afford Halloween

Well, I guess that is your choice and I’m not here to convince you to join in on Halloween.  I just want it left alone for those who DO participate!

Here’s my 5 cents on that (you now officially get 3 extra cents because pennies no longer exist):

If you don’t like Halloween or don’t want to participate – then don’t!

That seems pretty straightforward to me.  So why don’t our schools get that?

We are not campers in our family, so we don’t take our kids camping.  See how I did that?   

I don’t take my kids to campgrounds and then complain to all the other campers that WE don’t camp, so neither should they.  The campgrounds don’t close up because some people don’t like camping.

We don’t stand outside camping equipment stores and petition everyone going inside to cancel camping, just because WE don’t like camping.  The stores don’t stop selling gear because we don’t buy it.

Get my drift?

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If you don’t want your kids to participate – find something else for them to do while their class enjoys Halloween fun.  Why do our schools feel they need to make everybody happy all of the time?  Why does our government support this mentality?  There are A LOT of people that don’t like smoking.  For very good reasons.  Has the government banned smoking everywhere in this country??

As for costumes, I will admit that my kids prefer store-bought costumes.  Mainly because they don’t know any different.  I confess I am pretty uncreative and probably a bit lazy when it comes to thinking of original, homemade costumes.  It’s always seemed easier to buy one off the rack, but I’m not crafty, as you already know.

However, if I did not have the means to buy my kids costumes, I would suddenly become much more creative in digging through my closets, basement, parents’ closets and recycling bins to find bits and bobs that I could make inexpensive Halloween costumes out of.  I have a friend and she’s on a tight budget with four kids.  She does not buy costumes, but her kids pranced off to school today dressed in AMAZING homemade Halloween costumes that THEY thought of and made almost independently.

Necessity is the mother of invention, right?

When I was a kid, I don’t remember getting a store-bought costume (I may have gotten one, but I only remember the ones I made. Hmm…) and not because my parents couldn’t afford one.  It just wasn’t the norm, but not once did my parents or any other parents that I know of march down to our school and ask them to cancel Halloween because we couldn’t afford to BUY a costume!!!

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I support inclusion, I really do.   But I think we need to pause and consider what exactly inclusion means.  Inclusion is not a reversible word that translates to really mean inclusion for some, while excluding others.  And cancelling the fun of dressing up for Halloween with their classmates and eating a few treats for those who enjoy it sounds pretty exclusionary to me.

Have a safe and Happy Halloween everybody!


If you liked this post, please swing over to the right side of your screen and follow my blog, so you get my new posts directly in your email inbox. While you’re there, why not also click the “Like” button for my Facebook fan page and hit the “Follow @PapayaJambalaya” button to follow me on Twitter? Yeah, that’s right – go ahead – stalk me. It’s all good. If you’re already stalking me or are going to -Thank you!

Making My Jitters Find Some Bliss

Blissdom Canada

Now that the Blissdom Canada 2013 conference is only a couple of weeks away, I’m starting to come to grips with many of my original fears about attending a social media conference for the first time.  Everyone I’ve met as a result of my decision to attend has been so friendly and supportive in welcoming me, that many of my fears seem a bit silly, to be honest.  However, in the interest of a therapeutic approach, I thought I’d put all of my fears out there for everyone to snicker at read, in the hopes that others might identify with at least a few of them!  So, in no particular order, here are my fears about attending a social media conference for the first time:

1. My social media crushes (yes, there are more than one) might not be as funny and cool IRL (in real life) as they are online.

2.  Everyone attending may not be wearing the same clothes, glasses, hairstyles and facial expressions as their Twitter/blog/Facebook profile pictures, so I might not recognize anyone.

3.  I might be using social media to listen to and read about all the great room parties I’m not invited to networking…from the discomfort of my hotel room.

4.  A certain Editor-in-Chief of one of my favorite online magazines might never publish my articles again once she finds out I wear leggings as pants, even though I wear them with my tush covered by very long shirts or dresses.

5.  I might be convinced to monetize my blog and have to take on the responsibility of actually learning how to do that.

6.  I might show up at the PJ party wearing pj’s with cats or Winnie-the-Pooh all over them, only to find everyone else in cool LuluLemon yoga wear, and feel like Bridget Jones at the Vicars and Tarts party.

7.  Somebody might witness my tech illiteracy in action.

8.  People might think I have boob envy from staring at their name badges too long while trying to recognize their name, blog or Twitter handle.

9.  The food/cooking bloggers might shun me if they find out I serve frozen chicken fingers to my family occasionally.

10.  I might wear an attractive cocktail dress and heels to the Great Canadian Outdoors party and find everyone else wearing The Bay blanket-patterned jackets, jeans and cool hiking boots.  (I might also discover I’m a bit too concerned with what to wear.)

11.  I might be the only non-runner at the conference.  I might even be the only non-walker-if-I-can-avoid-it at the conference.

12.  I might make a bunch of new friends and business connections and be so busy I have to run just to keep up.

13.  I might say something incredibly dumb to somebody incredibly smart.

14.  I might finally find some inspiration for what to do when I grow up (Phase 2), now that my daughter has reached the age of full-time schooling and left me in her dust (from the new sandbox at her school).

15.  I might meet some people in the publishing business who want to publish my work and then I’ll have to actually produce that work on a deadline, instead of whenever I can squeeze it in.

16.  I might have some of the popular bloggers/social media influencers that I’ve followed on Twitter follow me back.

17.  I might feel less like a high school kid trying to find a place to “fit in” in the social media world once I learn more about that world and actually understand what SEO and Klout scores mean.

18.  I might become a blogger conference junkie and have to find a real paying job to support multi-conference attendance.

19.  I might walk out of the ladies’ room with toilet paper stuck to my shoe, fall up or down stairs (I am a notorious klutz on stairs) or end up with a giant stress pimple on my face the day the conference begins that will draw more attention to me than my personality does.

20.  I might be convinced to step outside of my stagnated-mommy comfort zone and try something new and interesting that inspires me.

There you have it folks – neurosis at its best. (Worst?)

Stay tuned –  I will report back post-conference and let you know how it went, and whether or not this post completely destroyed my chances of having anyone talk to me… (#21)

Feel free to share your own jitters, past or present, about attending social media conferences!

Is My Sense of Humour Broken?

I recently came across a post that is currently recirculating the social media circus (it’s apparently been around for 5 years or more) which provides an audio recording from a man who starts out leaving a voice message for a coworker/boss during his drive to work, and then suddenly becomes his eyewitness account of an accident and it’s aftermath.  I’m sharing it here, without vouching for it’s authenticity, because quite frankly, whether or not this really happened is not the point of my post.   Here goes:


(Thank you to “elliptical3” for posting this with subtitles on YouTube)

So, if you’re laughing right now – please explain to me:


I don’t get it.

I’ve been told by numerous people that I’m funny – and I’d like to think they were not referring to my looks.  People laugh with me fairly frequently (they laugh AT me pretty often, too, come to think of it), so I’ve come to trust that I could be considered someone with a decent enough sense of humour.

Yet, I find absolutely NOTHING funny about this audio recording description of a man getting a beatdown by 4 old ladies.

In fact, this recording leaves me with more questions than smiles.

Like: WHY was the man getting the beats by these ladies?  Barring the fact that he caused an accident and then appeared (according to the person describing the events) to be indicating with body language that he was not properly accepting responsibility for causing the accident – did he really deserve what sounds like a fairly vicious beating, albeit by senior guerrilla soldiers?  I’ve even considered the possibility that perhaps he was screaming obscenities at these little old ladies and that detail wasn’t provided in the recording, but would even THAT warrant a takedown by the elderly vigilante team?

I’m also wondering why hitting someone with a hardcover bible is considered funny.  Notwithstanding the irony this mental image provides for atheists and agnostics, it just doesn’t seem all that funny to me, but I’ve been surprised to find numerous Christians online who profess incredible love for that good ole book to also be posting comments about how they find it hysterical to hear about that same book of love being used to deliver a beating.

I’ve never been a big fan of comedy via physical pain.  The Three Stooges just annoy me, and even as a kid, I never enjoyed the the roadrunner consistently laying the smackdown on Wile E Coyote while foiling his attempts to capture the roadrunner. When I take Baby Girl to kids’ movies, which are often plagued with “funny” scenes of cartoon characters getting the snot beaten out of them in one manner or another, I usually lean over and whisper to her that it’s not funny when somebody gets hurt.  Yeah, I’m a real fun movie date that way.   But I mean it – I truly don’t find it humorous to witness a living creature suffering physical or emotional pain.  Sadly, there are currently over 2 million clicks on this recording that put me in the minority on that one.


Can somebody tell our producers that I’M actually faster than this bird, so I can finally eat and give my legs a rest?

So, this leads me to the bigger picture here and is relevant whether or not the scenario described in the recording really happened or not – what has made our society so amused by physical violence?  How did we become a society where a large majority of the population finds the physical beating of it’s own kind or other living creatures to be a form of amusement?  And what distinguishes the situation described in this recording as “funny” when other public beatings are not?  Would we have found the Rodney King beating “funny” if we had first heard about it through a YouTube audio recording from a man driving to work?  Doubtful.  So what’s the difference?  Is it the fact that seemingly harmless little old ladies unexpectedly delivered the can of whupass?  Perhaps.  Is it that they were not in a position of authority over the man who caused the accident and surprised his apparently poor attitude with some vengeance of their own?  Maybe.  Was it the weapons of convenience used by the aging warriors that pushed the scene into the comedy zone?  I don’t know.  

Heavy artillery for the geriatric mercenary

Heavy artillery for the geriatric mercenary

I don’t get what’s funny about it, and while I don’t think that Rodney King’s beating was exactly the same as this supposed one, I do still feel that in both scenarios, a man got physically harmed when he should not have.  Perhaps you are thinking at this point that I should just remove the stick from my patootie, take a chill pill and just laugh at this recording because everyone else seems to find it funny and what is my problem?  I don’t blame you, you’re certainly entitled to that opinion.  I’ve contemplated those questions myself, but continuously come up with the same answer – I just don’t find this, or other scenes of physical violence, to be funny.

Finally, please don’t take this personally if you did laugh at the recording – you’re one of millions and my post is not in judgement of you personally.   I don’t think I’m a better person because I didn’t laugh – in fact, I wonder sometimes if there’s something missing from my sense of humour when I don’t find this kind of stuff amusing and worry that maybe I just take life too seriously sometimes.  This post is more a commentary on our society than a personal judgement on you or I.

If we find it funny to hear a live description of old ladies delivering the kung-pow to a defenseless man who did nothing but make the common mistake of causing a traffic accident, what will we eventually find funny in the future?  
Scary to consider…

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