Today's joke

Q. What is George Bush's position on Roe vs. Wade?

A. He really doesn't care how people get out of New Orleans.

Rent me

Air Canada newly offers a two-month travel pass for just shy of $7,000.

But pulling out a calculator, that's $875 of travel a week.

Is $125 a day enough to induce sheep to be prodded, stripped and de-shoe'd at more than 100 world airports?

Then loaded bleating aboard AC jets where sullen crews force-feed captives their burden, ill-humor and pain?

If I only took one flight a day, that's 60 days of honey pretzels and middle seat.

Seven grand is just not enough.

Oh wait--you say I pay them $7,000--they don't pay me?

Forget it.

Wake up call

High on the ridges, tell-tale alarms ring.
Only the birds probably notice.

Too hot for cable

For those who think North American media don't pull their punches, this flood image appears uniquely in the current Stern, the German news weekly. The caption identifies it as taken in a New Orleans church, as waters recede.

Quite anxious

"Prime Minister Martin expressed his personal condolences on the tragedy and told the President that Canada is actually quite anxious to help."
-- PMO spokesperson Melanie Gruer

Things the PMO forgot to express...

- "Do you have our cellphone number? Just a moment, It's 613-something-something. Does anyone know our emergency 24/7 Actually-Quite-Anxious-To-Help number? Oh dear, can we back to you on that?"

- "Have you seen our new poll numbers?"

- "Gum?"

Adrift, as usual

The best show on U.S. television is HBO's Real Time, with comedian/ringmaster Bill Maher.

It is must-see TV. (HBO Friday nights, 11 p.m.)

Our Canadian gatekeepers (the CRTC, networks and specialty channels operated on the cheap) think Real Time too Yank-centric and averse to political apathy and consumerism to show northern sheep. God forbid we bleat.

Our gatekeepers are, of course, idiots.

Bill Maher's take on the great New Orleans flood...

- "Finally, convoys of troops and aid have started to arrive on the Gulf coast. Five days after the hurricane! It kind of makes you miss those innocent days when Bush only sat on his ass for seven minutes." (The hapless president sat thru kindergarten story time when he learned skyscrapers were under attack on 9/11)

- "It only took Bush four days to make a plan. Unfortunately it is a faith-based plan. It involves getting two of every animal onto a big boat."

- "He could have made a plan on Saturday when everybody knew a big hurricane was going to hit the city. But Bush thinks the jury is still out on weather forecasting..."

- "There's one big difference between George Bush and Marie Antoinette. When Marie Antoinette said 'Let them eat cake' ...THEY HAD CAKE."

- "He was on the ground today, you saw him hugging the starving. Touring the devasted area. His quote was that New Orleans is more devasted than New York on 9/11. Then Bush grabbed a bull horn and vowed: 'We Will Get Mother Nature! Dead or Alive!'"

- "If you want to help the victims hit hardest by Hurricane Katrina, Fox News has posted the website of the Republican National Committee."

Canada missed a clear opportunity in the early hours of the tragedy to finally jump aboard a US humanitarian issue with both feet and score some Brownie points.

Why is it always ordinary Canadians who out-perform their government now, as in the aftermath of 9/11?

But then Liberals are too busy buying confetti for their glorious re-election. It is good to be petty. Their traditional hate-the-Yanks tune serves them well.

What else does charmless cipher Paul Martin have going for him?

Ideas? Integrity? A vision?

Now there's a joke.

Small town rodeo

So before God invented skateboards, motorcross and Extreme Everything, God invented rodeo.

He prefers small town rodeo. God is not much for sitting high up in binocular-land, top of a grandstand in some name brand cow town.

At a small town rodeo, every seat offers the sweaty, sweetstink, hoof-eye view, better than a pair of golds at The Hanger. You are nose-to-nose with the stock. And there's always the lucky chance they'll come thru the fencing and give you a swift boot to the head. You've been asking for it.

Who was the first guy who said to his bud: "See that one-ton steer? The snarly one? I bet I can ride it." I mean honestly: how bored were they?

But here walk heroes.

The "thud" is no louder, the fractures and risks no greater in Calgary than in Weasel Breath, Ontario. And when the cowdudes get the ladies sweaty wtih their daring deeds, or somebody makes the eight second horn, the sun shines a little higher, a little brighter.

Holy crap. Did you see that? Who wouldn't want to be a cow hand?

Or so it seems this perfect August Sunday afternoon.

Ontario's big heart

A modest proposal

Quite by accident, I discover the CBC is on strike.

An endless stream of mediocre music fills the radio network airwaves, interrupted by an occasional management voice and moldy oldies like This Is Art. Can Canada keep its begonias alive without the Monday gardening phone-in? Find a way, I say.

Since most agree the CBC's best days are behind it, why not just repeat every show the network has ever broadcast? And never make a new one?

This serves two purposes.

1. A continuing drizzle of public sector ear drool for a loyal, grumpy, shrinking audience of hearing aids.

2. A guaranteed sunset clause for taxpayers. After the CBC exhausts 50 years of archives, let the ship sink slowly in the west.

Is everybody happy?

One day out

Gone kayaking.

Ready and waiting

Going, going ...

Taking turns

Prime Minister Dithers' delightful appointment of another obscure CBC talking head as governor general raises new hope that George Stroumboulopoulos can become GG in our lifetime.

Thus, Canada's first suspect separatist Governor-General would be followed by George, star of Newsworld's Yo We Be Happin' The Hour: our first pierced GG.

How hot is it? About five inches

Broken justice

So how much does the NHL care about a broken neck?

Not much.

How about a new rule for the next time somebody like Todd Bertuzzi takes a run at somebody like Steve Moore?

You get to play again whenever the guy you've injured plays again. Simple? Easy to remember? Even for Bobby Clobber?

No 10 games, 13 games, 20, luck of the draw.

No sad hearings and appeals to the commissioner.

You play again whenever the guy you cold cocked does. It might be four games, it might be never.

You think players might focus their energies in a better direction?

Fair disclosure: the above rule would not apply if the object of the hit was NHL boss Gary Bettman. We all want a shot.

That'll do

Dawg days

Oh the happiness. The frisbees. The barking.

Spent three days at the annual Kingston Sheepdog Trials, now in its 18th glorious year.

The pastures at Grassy Creek Park roll down to an unexpected sand beach on the St. Lawrence.

Dogs and trainers move sheep thru gates or try to sort out the few with red collars on.

Dogs play fly-ball.

And since spectator dogs are welcome, for every one of the 100-plus dogs in the herding events and Freestyle Dance (yes!) events, there are another 50 dogs watching, whimpering, barking, straining.

"Let me at the flying fuzzy thing he's got."

"Hey hey hey, that sheep in the back is looking the other way!"

"A little help? I'm here, I'm here! Me!"

The fly-ball demonstration--dog relay teams jumping hurdles--is about 90% airborne.

On a sunny afternoon, double the moving shapes for flying dogs and their scooting shadows three or four feet below.

There is nothing a border collie would not do to grab a rope, a pulltoy or to just get much crazier than usual. Here is the proof.

Perfect weather. Dog people. Happy mutts. Sweet.

Sheep shearing

Ontario's Thousand Islands Casino shears more sheep each year than most wool farms.

This is a mighty mystery.

Follow the signs near Gananoque, and you arrive at what appears to be a failed Wal-Mart or Loblaws in a field. Inside this eyesore box is more security--and less fun--than most airports.

An Unsmiling Uniformed Greeter will decide if you should be allowed in. If she suspects you are under 50, you will be shepherded into a second line-up to produce two pieces of identification for a Large Uniformed Bald Guy. Prove you are 18. People obviously in their 30s and 40s were digging in their wallets when I was there. Or having their cameras confiscated.

Are we having fun yet?

Beyond the doors is an area smaller than a Canadian Tire store, filled with slot machines. It is patrolled by Large Uniformed Security People. A few random table games are under the yawning control of Uniformed Croupiers. You will notice there is much less sound than in a Vegas or Atlantic Casino. No yelling, no laughter. Are we having fun yet?

At the far end of the hall is an entry to the Grill. It is more brightly lit than the casino or most high school cafeterias. Here you will order your overpriced beer and a bump. Do try the Virgin Baah shooter. Thanks to Ontario's arcane liquor laws, drinking and gambling may never be mixed. No cocktails for high rollers.

But then, you can buy beer, wine and booze at many rural groceries. The province insists all city folk buy their drinks from lazy LCBO stores, conveniently located wherever the MPP of the government of the day insisted there be one.

In short, here is a sullen, imitation casino for sheep. It is a sad, insulting imitation of the real thing, where sheep are stripped of their money with Great Joy and Delight.

Ontario is politically correct so it is a "charity casino." The charity of course, is the Ontario government which thanks to your participation, can ignore good causes they really don't give a darn about. You have bought them The Freedom from Guilt.

Aren't you taxed enough? Casinos are a tax on the stupid. Why would you give them a cent? If you are wise, you will just take a nice snapshot of the large rock in parking lot C2. And leave. Shaking your head.

Is it more humiliating to work at the Thousand Islands Charity Casino Penitentiary? Or to actually spend a dime there as a customer? Discuss.

Click

Do you believe in ghosts?
Backing out the driveway, I glance at the spot
where my sweetest sheepdog buried his bones.
He died in January.
Nothing ever grew in this spot, mostly because
he'd dig, hide and rearrange his stash on a daily basis,
even thru the coldest winter.
This morning, there is something there.
This.
Yes, I'm spooked.

Take this desk and shove it

Charles Gerba, a microbiologist at the University of Arizona, found the typical office desk harbors some 400 times more disease-causing bacteria than the average toilet seat.

Hey Bob! I'm moving my computer.
If anybody wants me, I'll be out back.

Snooze

Doors open.
Doors close.
Sheepdogs sleep.

Just sent column 7,127 down the pipe.
I'm okay with it.
Saved this photo for this day. Sweet.
It looks at me every time I turn on my computer.
These columns kept him in kibble.

Guess I should also save a complete file copy here--in case it's not posted to the canoe website Sunday. By accident, of course.


EXIT RIFF: This is my last column for the Toronto Sun.

Those who just muttered "Good" can probably stop reading.

The first dunf column surfaced in the third issue of the Sunday Sun. That was September 1973--about 7,127 columns ago. Not bad for a part-time job.

From Trudeaumania to Prime Minister Dithers and Premier McFib, from the Tiny Perfect Mayor and North York Bananaman to Amiel, the Black Queen of King Street, it has been an all-too-enjoyable ride. Did I hear somebody request the Christmas Glove joke? Too late.

If you remember any of those columns, get to a clinic. You may be what we doctors call "an effin' boomer." Boomers are despised by ad agencies and young alike. Quick, get in the van. Enjoy our ride to the dump.

The clever columnist keeps two file folders.

One is the Alibi File, in which you place any favorable mention. Notes from Allan Slaight, Leonard Asper, Gary Lautens, Jim Carrey and years of in-house high fives. You frantically wave this folder the day you zig when you should have zagged and fear they might fire you. Mercy!

The other folder is labeled Last Column. Here, you save any final effort by a Royko, a Breslin that manages to touch your heart or shows some class, a generosity of spirit. You hope to marshal the same. If you can't, you can always scalp theirs. Hey, just kidding. That would be wrong.

Many exit columns celebrate mentors and guardians. Daily columns can only be grown by master gardeners. Mine would include the amazing Kathy Brooks, insightful pal John Downing, wise Trudy Eagan and quarterback Peter Worthington--who saved me from ever being sacked by a Bassett. And of course, tabloid newsdom's founding god of grins, Doug Creighton.

Barbara Amiel once wrote that to survive at the Sun you have to learn ballroom dancing and how to be a good sport. She danced with Doug. I once danced with Eagan. They were kind enough not to laugh. Or demand to see our Alibi Files. They were good sports. But hey, I've mastered the limbo.

To be a happy Sun reader, you need two things. Good toonz and good teeth. Try the new CD by jazz singer Chiara Civello for the first. And if you fear dentists more than a Liberal majority, find Anesthesia Associates in North York. Superhero "Dr. Dave" was not an invention. Dr. David Isen is real. So is being zonked, dentalphobes. Anyone for pre-med? Me!

I'm sorry we never solved the mystery of Mickey Mouse's dog, Pluto. He's half Mickey's size. Is Mickey a giant mouse? Or is Pluto no bigger than a thimble? Goofy--Mickey's next-door neighbor--is also a dog but walks on two legs. Does Pluto never look over the fence and cry: "Hey, I got a dog house. Look what that dog has! You're my pet now, cheese-breath."

Please, no sobbing, Sparky. There's no key to turn me off. Did I mention I've been blogging for a month? See proof at www.dunf.blogspot.com

Eight years ago, my late, great accountant asked how long I planned to write a column.

"Until they beg me to stop," I joked. "The Sun's been very good to me." Arthur Gelgoot, guru to so many media idiots, let a gentle smile flicker about his cozy Bay St. office. "You can stop any time, you know."

I nodded. He meant financially. I thought emotionally.

Years later, I had a conversation with somebody at the Sun I suspected might be my boss. A freelance writer, I never really knew who was my boss. Nobody ever talked to me about yesterday's column. Nobody asked what was in tomorrow's. They left me alone. AND paid me. Holy crap. Unique.

"Hey, when the day comes, just say the word," I assured one of the editors. "I won't go away mad. I'll just go away."

"Like hell you will," he laughed. "Everybody goes away mad." Wrong, dude. Page Six died screaming. But not me.

Exit laughing. Y'all have a great life. Thanks for the ride, gang.

Beer? dunf

Dunf's e-mail: pagesix@aol.com