Kittens, Justin Bieber and Walmart – from cute to annoying

Since I’ve joined the Facebook community, I’ve noticed just how many sickeningly cute pictures and videos there are of cats.  I’m pretty sure the people who were the brain thrust of the internet didn’t have snoring kittens in mind.

If you know me, you know I’ve never been much of a cat lover, but I do admit that kittens have their charm.  Those doey eyes, fluffy fur and curious nature are hard to resist…until they’re not cute anymore.  Then they just pee on your stuff and shred the corners of your favourite furniture.

Puppies, with their over-sized paws clumsily bound around the house, knocking over kids and plants, and they constantly fall down the stairs – adorable!  Then they get big, and they become a smelly, hairy pain in the tush.  Then, when they knock stuff over, it’s ‘outdoors, Rover!’

Even Canada’s You Tube export, Justin Bieber was cute at one point.  With his wispy hair-do and sickeningly sweet tones.  Not any more!  Now there’s a petition to have him extradited back to Canada.  Somewhere along the line, his irresistible charm tarnished badly.

It’s funny how we view things – there was an ad a while ago, I think for a car company, where they compared a squirrel to a rat.  Basically, visually speaking, they look the same, except that the squirrel has a nice big bushy tail.  Everyone loves squirrels but hates rats…presumably because of the tail.  The fact that rats live in the sewers, spread plague and eat garbage doesn’t help, either.

I don’t remember the car or what they were trying to explain.

I’ve been doing a bit of ‘entrepreneurial’ work lately (that’s a secret code word for ‘a couple hours of work on the internet followed by grass cutting, chatting with neighbours, wandering the aisles of Costco, and napping through home improvement shows’).

Everyone loves to hear about small business success stories.  Little Davids out there, taking on the giant, ugly Goliath’s of the business world.  ‘”Go get em’!”  I’d hear.  “What a great idea.  I’m sure you’ll make a killing at that”, and so on.

All very rah-rah, and good for the emotional soul.  I guess what I keep wondering though, is when does the rah-rah stop, and the web-bashing begin?  I mean, it’s not likely that I’ll be an overnight success and suddenly be subject to scrutiny over my hiring or wage practices, but still…

What got me wondering about this, is that recently I heard an argument that although we all love to hate Walmart despite the ironic fact that almost all of us hand over our cash to them every week, they too were a success story.  Somewhere back in little Bentonville, Arkansas, at a 5 and Dime store known as ‘Walton’s’, and founded by that kindly-looking country bumkin ‘soon-to-be billionaire’, Sam Walton was a small business owner who had his share of ‘rah-rah’ admirers.

But, like kittens and Justin, something changed.  Once they became big, or self-realized, or smug, or whatever, we decided they resembled the rat more than the squirrel.  I guess we all like a success story until it’s, well…successful.  Huh.

I read a book…well read most of a book called ‘The Tipping Point’.  Basically, it was trying to explain that at some point, a trickle becomes a deluge based on a slight change in the fulcrum of the balance of things.  I never did get through it, but I think it applies here.

There is a tipping point where children aren’t adorable any more.  We still love them and care for them, but they tend to drive us nuts a little more.  They tipped.

Maybe that’s what happened to Justin Bieber and Walmart.  They were cute and adorable, but the invisible pendulum swung a bit too far the other way, and suddenly weren’t lovable any more.  They abused or outgrew their cuteness and suddenly became annoying and ugly.

The success story that got them where they are was also their undoing in the eyes of public opinion.  The squirrel’s tail turned into an ugly, skin coloured whip, and we turned away in disgust.

Cute keeps you alive when you’re young – heck, even I was ‘cute-ish’ when I was little, in a freckle faced Ginger sort of way, but when my legs grew longer than my body, and my voice changed, little bits of that rat tail emerged.  You can’t count on your adorableness for too long, so you have to adapt.

I guess it means always looking like the squirrel, and not letting your rat tail show.  Maybe that’s what all those spin doctors are there for – to try to convince the public that your favourite celebrity or business success story still has a bushy tail.

For me, my self-employment venture is a very long way from ever looking like a rat, but if I’m lucky, a long way down the road, someone will point out that my tail is showing.  I’m sure my loving friends and family will ensure I stay ever so humble.

 

Here’s my shameless plug (while I’m still cute):

http://magicmats.net/

 

 

The Raven (as portrayed by a small white dog)

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Last night upon a midnight dreary, my small dog whined weak and weary,
Over many a bothersome and irritating volume of forgotten rest,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a pest,
As of some one gently crying, crying at my bedroom door.
`’It’s the dog,’ I muttered, `whining at my bedroom door –
It’s only rain and nothing more.’

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak Springtime,
And each separate drop of rain wrought its ghost upon the door.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my pillow buffering the sorrow – sorrow about the sad Brandi –
For the mutt that once was fun, whom my mother named Brandi –
Blasphemous words I yelled in vain.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each white ear
Chilled me – filled me with annoyed mutters never spoke before;
So that now, to still the beast at my bed, I stood repeating
`’Tis just raining outside dumb dog, stop whining at my bedroom door’-
Some pathetic dog voice seeking entrance at my bedroom door; –
It’s only rain and nothing more,’

Presently my calm grew weaker; hesitating then no longer,
`Dog’ said I, `You’re mad, truly your quietude I implore;
But the fact is I was sleeping, and so loudly you came weeping,
And so annoyingly you came weeping, crying at my bedroom door,
That I could no longer ignore you’ – here I opened wide the door; –
It’s only rain, and nothing more.

Towards the girls room, darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, missing dreams would she wake the girl next door;
But the silence was broken, and the girl was not awoken,
And the only sound there angrily was the whispered word, `Brandi!’
This I grumbled, and she echoed whimpers I implore, `Brandi!’
It’s only rain and nothing more.

Back into the bedroom turning, all my effort with with useless churning,
Soon again I heard a whining somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely she’ll give up at my bedroom door;
Let me sleep then, what torture is, a small white dog named ‘Brandi!’ –
Let me rest and be still tonight stifling the sound of ‘Brandi!’; –
It’s only rain and nothing more!’

 

My apologies to Mr. Poe for butchering his famous poem.  I ended up taking my dog down to the basement where she couldn’t hear the rain.  I got about 3 hours sleep…we’re getting some sleeping pills from the vet.  I haven’t decided if we are supposed to give them to her or take them ourselves.

 

 

 

…’With a little help from my friends’…

min·ion

ˈminyən/

noun

plural noun: minions

1.

a follower or underling of a powerful person, esp. a servile or unimportant one.

synonyms:

underling, henchman, flunky, lackey, hanger-on, follower, servant, hireling, vassal, stooge, toady, sycophant;

I wish I’d thought of it years ago, but hindsight is 20/20 as they say.  I need some minions.  I need unquestioning followers who will do my bidding without reservation, complaint, or hesitation.

Imagine a world where all you had to do was ask, and whatever you requested would be granted; where obedient subjects blindly take all orders and execute them without delay.

Oh sure, I had kids who I could order around for a while, but eventually you see that look in their suspicious little faces, questioning simple requests;

“Go get Daddy another beer.”

“Hold this while I start up the chainsaw”

“Don’t tell Mom I broke it.  It’ll be our little secret.”

You know, the usual stuff. That’s when you know that they know something isn’t quite right with this symbiotic relationship, and your hope of having a permanent underling to do your dirty work is done.  They’re so ungrateful, those kids!

I have lots of friends…well, a few friends, but they’re all too smart to go along with any wild world domination plans I might have.  I need to wear dark sunglasses when I ask them to get me the necessary parts to make a death-ray.  They can see the crazy in my eyes which is a giveaway that I might not be quite right.

I’m too broke to hire a personal assistant, like they do in Hollywood.  That looks like a pretty sweet gig!  Imagine having someone walk the dog, pick up laundry, cook supper, clean the pool and massage your tired feet after a long day of shouting ridiculous orders at them.

I have a dog, who I guess would be a good minion since she has unwavering loyalty to me, except that it kind of works in reverse for us.  I feed her, carry her down the stairs, walk her, pick up after her, brush her fur….hmmm.

I might have looked at interns, but big business has ruined that sweet little free labour pool for the common man.

Even Dr. Frankenstein had Igor, but you could tell that the poor hunchback would shiv the bad doctor at his first chance, given the way he was treated.

The only thing left for guys like me are ‘minions’, but where do you start?  Is there a ‘Minion Mail Order’ website?  Where do these minions come from anyway?  How do you know that they’ll stupidly accommodate every insane request you make without hesitation?  Is there a vetting or interview process?

There’s lots I need to research, to be sure.

How many do I need?  Do I start with a half-dozen and see how things are going?  Do I have to give them names?  Maybe they all get the same name and somehow can just figure out who I’m talking to, kind of like George Foreman did.

What about feeding?  Do they need a special minion diet, and if so, do I get a minion to serve it to himself?

I know they’re all ‘him’s’ because no girl minion would be dumb enough to blindly follow me around all day.

What if they unionize? I’d hate for them to be carrying me over to the treadmill then stopping halfway because of a negotiated coffee break.  I’d be stuck there for 15 minutes!

Where do they sleep?  Do they sleep?

If one gets away, do I go after it like a lost sheep, or just call up my minion supplier and order a replacement?

Wow.  This is getting to be a lot of work!  Maybe this whole minion thing needs a rethink.  Maybe I should just depend on me to do my dastardly deeds.  At least I know I would do things exactly the way I wanted them done.

Maybe that’s the fatal flaw with minions.  The movies prove it.  Every time a super villain (not suggesting I want to be one) has minions do his dirty work, something goes wrong and they end up failing in their bid to blow up the moon or detach California from the rest of the continent.

I think villains should aim a little lower, at least to start.  Pretty sure that if you want to vaporize a planet, a lot of people are going to try to stop you, but if you wanted to take a shopping cart past the store parking lot, you might go unnoticed.

That’s a job even the simplest of minions could handle.

My insidious little plan?  Why do I really need minions?  I haven’t figured that one out yet, and it would spoil the surprise, but you have know that being the master of a bunch of mindless followers has it’s appeal.

Regardless, I’d start out small, maybe washing the car if the weather gets above freezing.

I won’t work them up to continental annihilation until I’m sure they can follow basic direction.  There’s nothing worse than commandeering every television station in the world to give the nations notice that if they don’t comply with my demands, I’ll blow up Iceland, only to find out that the minions forgot to plug in my death ray.

Or, maybe I just need to stop watching sci-fi reruns and go outside…it’s been a loooong winter!

Yeah, forget the minions.  I’m the only one who can do things my way.  I’ll be my own master, and serve my dog mindlessly.

P.S. – I tried to warn you about winter in my last blog, but nooo!  You all thought my little petition was a hoax, and now we’re stuck digging out of another lousy storm.  Well, you can’t complain if you didn’t vote.

Fetch, old Rover!

“You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

I don’t necessarily prescribe to that belief.  We’ve somehow taught our 13 year old dog to not climb stairs any more.

She just stands at the top or bottom, depending on the intended direction, and whines.  We will then grab her like a football, and give her a free ride.  Luckily, she only weighs about 15 pounds, so its easy enough to do.  Maybe it’s a trick that she taught us…

Even if you haven’t had any luck with getting a senior pooch to roll over or walk around on it’s hind legs, it doesn’t mean that they can’t learn how. They probably just can’t be bothered.  They’ve wised up to the stupid pet tricks we try to put them through, just to get a treat we’d give them anyway.

At some point, we, like old dogs, figure out what we just won’t put up with any more.

When you’re young, pliable, and more eager than wise, you’re willing to do just about anything asked of you.  This is particularly true in the workplace.

Case in point;  In my earlier working days, I was employed at a printing factory.  The tenured ‘pressmen’, who had been on the job for decades would perform innocent hazing routines on any newbie that wandered into their lair.

They would hand the fresh new meat a plastic pail and tell them to go and get it filled with ‘blue smoke’ for the next press run.  The eager youngster would grab the bucket and scamper away, like it was a quest for the holy grail.

Of course, there is no such thing as ‘blue smoke’, and most of the other workers in the plant knew it, but they’d send the poor kid on a fruitless scavenger hunt for hours.

The bully pressmen would sometimes alternate this trick and ask the rookie to go and get the ‘paper stretcher’ from another pressman.  Again, no such thing as a paper stretcher, and the other workers would play along.

Try that with a 50 year old.  They’d never fall for it, because they’re wise enough to probe before ever lifting a finger:

• “Sounds unhealthy. It might aggravate my hypertension”
• “Don’t you have someone else who can do it?”
• “How heavy is it?  I have a hernia.”
• “Why don’t you get it, and show me for next time?”

It’s like the old dog.  You hold up a treat and they might sit, but anything more than that, and they’ll probably just go and lay down, with a look that says ‘If this stupid snack is so great, why don’t you eat it?‘.

Well, this old dog is learning a new trick.

I started a new job on Monday, after a 6 month ‘vacation’, and there are a lot of new tricks that I’m expected to execute in short order.

I know that I need that treat, so I’m willing to do what has to be done.  Don’t get me wrong – they’re not asking me to do anything like search for blue smoke or paper stretchers.

During my orientation, there was a sign-up sheet to join the company volley ball team.  20 years ago, I would have run out at lunch and bought knee pads and court shoes.  Now? I’ll just sit in the shade and watch.

On the upside, having seen around a few corners during my life, I’m more likely to offer candid feedback to my new employer.

“Do you mind sitting down?  When you walk around behind me, you make me nervous.”,or “I pretty much know everything in this section.  Can we just do the assessment and move on to the next chapter?  It’ll save the company time and money.”

No freshman would ever say stuff like that!

I have to say that the training has been going well.  My trainer commented on how refreshing it is to work with someone who already knows a few things.  I’ll do the ‘come here’ thing, but I won’t roll over or jump through hoops.  I think he respects that.

I can’t wait for the next training session, though:  Overcoming Objections.  Not a problem for this old dog.  Picture it:

“Hello, this is Troy from XYZ Company.  I’ll be in your area next week and wanted to drop by to show you our new winter catalogue”.

“Oh, we really don’t need anything at this time”.

“I understand – that’s because you haven’t seen the catalogue yet.  How’s 10:00 on Tuesday?”

“No thanks.  That won’t work for me.  Thanks, anyway”.

“Of course.  How about I get there at 9:00? That way you can get on with your busy day once we’re done.  How do you like your coffee?  Regular? Black?”

“I like regular, but…”

“Great!  Regular it is. See you at 9”.

You see, the old dog knows how to get the treat without doing a bunch of humiliating stunts.  They’ll just wander over and help themselves.  No ‘shake a paw’ or ‘lay down’ nonsense.

The trick, I think, is to balance things by providing a solid reason for your existence, otherwise it’s off to that farm in the country that your parents told you about when you were a kid.

If you’re not cute, you better be handy!

You’ll have to show loyalty, intelligence, hard work, great intuition and leadership, or they’ll decide they find the naive young ones more entertaining and valuable, playing dead or chasing their tails for a bland snack.

So, for this aging pooch, it’s off the fuzzy blanket, and out corralling the herd for a few more years.  Maybe I’ll get a scratch behind the ear if I do a good job.

The Perils of Humor

A joke is a very serious thing –
Winston Churchill

If asked, most people would tell you they have a good sense of humor.  No one wants to be known as humorless.  It would be a rare thing to have someone inform you, “Just so you know, I have no sense of humor, so please do not try to amuse me”.  Maybe airport security could get away with this, or a judge in a criminal trial, but that’s about it.

Most likely, you’ll get a good hint about their ‘humor quotient’ when they say something like, “I love a good joke as much as the next guy, but…”.  WARNING!!  This person does not have a good sense of humor!

I think I have a good sense of humor, and I enjoy sharing this gift with others when I can.  I don’t know if anyone else thinks I’m funny, but I do, and I make me laugh, so that’s as good an endorsement as any.

My style of humor tends to be more along the quick comeback or sarcastic genre, and not so much the well thought out, detailed joke type.  Frankly, my attention span is too short for that anyway, and I’m not a really deep thinker either, as you can tell by my previous blogs (you can laugh here if you like…).

There are some challenges, though, when it comes to humor.   The first is timing – especially if you’re the quick comeback type, timing is everything!  You can’t have a witty comeback the next day.  Calling up your buddy the morning after and saying “That’s not a duck!” somehow loses its edginess.

The other key ingredient is knowing your audience.  This has been my ‘growth’ area in the humor learning world.  A great joke can crash like the Hindenburg if it’s told in the wrong social group.  It happens to me pretty regularly.  Picture this: My wife’s family reunion.

Let me set the stage – she comes from a small farming community, and everyone in this community is related.  I mean EVERYONE!  There are usually well over 100 uncles, aunts, cousins, and other related types at this annual event.  I can never tell them apart.   Anyway, many of her uncles are farmers – good, hard working, soul of the earth type people.  I come from the city – no earth, no soul.  We have nothing in common except my wife.

While standing around a hay wagon, I was trying to keep up with comments on the ‘JD 1000-S’ model tractor.  There was silent break in the conversation – deadly to the quick-witted. I decided to jump in and tell a farming joke – the only one I knew.  Perfect for this audience right?

“There’s a salesman driving through the countryside, when he passes a farm and sees a pig standing in the field.  The pig has one wooden leg.  Curiosity gets the best of the salesman, so he turns around and pulls up to the farm house.

The farmer comes out to greet him, as any friendly farmer would.  The salesman says, ‘Sorry to bother you, but I noticed you have a pig out there with a wooden leg‘.

‘Yes!‘ says the farmer. ‘That’s Arnold.  Arnold is no ordinary pig.  Last summer, I tipped the tractor on a boulder over in the north field, and it fell on me. I was pinned and would have died out there, but Arnold heard my screams, and alerted my neighbour to come and help get the tractor off of me’. 

‘WOW!’ says the salesman.

The farmer continues, ‘That’s not all! This past Christmas, me and Ma were sleeping, when a fireplace log rolled out and onto the carpet.  The whole living room was starting to burn.  Arnold smelled the smoke from out in the barn and busted out, making a heck of a racket.  It woke us up, and we were able to put out the fire.‘ 

‘That’s amazing!’ says the salesman.  ‘But, I have one question for you; ‘Why does Arnold have a wooden leg?‘

‘Son‘, replies the farmer,  ‘You don’t eat a pig like that all at once!‘.”

Crickets.  Not one of them even smiled.  I guess this kind of animal practice actually makes perfect sense.  Or, it makes no sense at all – they were all probably thinking ‘what a stupid farmer! Anyone knows that once you start eating a pig, you need to do the whole animal at once!’.

Great timing, wrong joke for the audience.  Que the Hindenburg.

It’s the awkward silence that kills.  It’s like heroin to the quick-witted!  It can’t be resisted.  Something has to be said, and it’s often the wrong thing.

Other times, its when you just don’t know what else to say.  I once had an awkward ‘humor’ moment with my dog’s vet.  Just so you know, my dog is fine, so no nasty replies from the SPCA or PETA, or anyone else who thinks there’s nothing funny about pets, please.

I dropped her at the vet because of a problem with her hind leg.  I asked them to call me later with the results.  The vet called.  I should have known that when it comes to your life-long work, everything about your jobs is serious….I should have known.

The vet assured me that they could do a simple procedure that would cost about $1,000.  All the wind left my lungs.  It was a laugh or cry feeling.  Guess what I did?

I blurted out, as a joke, ‘Sure, but she would be okay with walking on 3 legs, right?‘  You could almost see the Hindenburg floating into view…not the right time or audience  for this kind of quick response.

The funniest part of that incident was that they did do the procedure, but fixed the wrong leg…now I had a dog with 2 unusable legs.  They suggested I put her hind quarters in a sling and walk her around like a wheelbarrow.  Now THAT’S funny!

There was one time that did work for me, even though it was completely off-color and inappropriate.  A group of coworkers and I were tasked with figuring out some prizes to hand out during a large sales convention at a resort.  There were 3 types of social activities:  Golf, fishing, and horseback riding.  Okay, I got this!

Golf and fishing prizes were ‘easy-peezy’.  Then came the horseback riding.  I don’t know anything about horseback riding.  I don’t even know if its considered a sport.  We were stumped.  Suddenly, as if pulled from the headlines, I blurted out: ‘What about a Christopher Reeve award?  We can give it to anyone who doesn’t fall of their horse?’

Pretty sure one of the guys shot beer out his nose. In the end, our Human Resources manager axed the idea.  Something about sensitivity and appropriateness.  I don’t work there any more.

That’s the trouble with humor – it’s like making home-made soup. No matter the ingredients or the time you put into it, someone is going to spit it out in disgust.

Humor is really about personal taste, and has to be served at exactly the right time and to the right audience.  If not….

…but it’s ALWAYS worth the risk.