The rock.

I've been watching some of the Winter Olympics this year. My wife had them on, and we like to see some of the amazing things people can do. I swear, freestyle ski jumps, skeleton sledding, speed skating, and so on -- if you'd never seen anything like it until you were an adult, you wouldn't believe the human body could perform such actions. 

Of course, cheating -- anyone above the age of three could believe that. 

 

It's tempting to pile on Canada because of the apparent dishonor their men's curling team has brought to the nation. Once thou hast let go of thy rock, thou cans't touch it no longer! The Eleventh Commandment, at least in the Olympics. 

One commenter said that in practical play, curling is like golf, in which honor is expected and demonstrated in friendly matches. I play neither sport, but I have always heard that golfers are notoriously untrustworthy. There's more to a lie in golf than the spot of the ball.

For some, the real scandal of curling is that it is an Olympic sport at all. To them, it is like having darts or bowling at the Olympics. 

I don't know. Archery has been a regular Olympic sport since 1972, and what is darts but fun-size archery? Bowling requires more effort than darts, but bowling does not allow sweepers as in curling -- and those sweepers are always out there working like the boss's boss just walked in. In any event, golf has been back in the Olympics since 2016 (after a 112-year absence), so you tell me what counts as a sport.

I still like the pancake test, heard a few years back on a Wall Street Journal podcast: If you can eat a stack of pancakes and go out and not have it affect your play, you are playing a game, not a sport. Golfers, curlers, bowlers, and so on may ask themselves that deep question. 

As for me, a stack of pancakes would make me want to nap, so it would even affect me playing Clue or some Pop-O-Matic game. I guess in the shape I'm in, everything is a sport. 

54° 40' or fuggetaboutit.

Since President Trump picked on PM Trudeau a few days back, the meme machines have gone into overdrive once again. 

A lot of gags hang on the idea of Trump annexing Canada, making it into the 51st state ("Gay North Dakota" etc.). Of course the New York Times, which hates Donald and loves Justin (and both his dad and his "dad"), was mad at Trump. In other news, rain is wet.

It led me to wonder -- what if, not by war but some more peaceable means, Canada did become part of the United States? What would that look like politically? Would it be good for either country?

If Canada was admitted to the union as a single gigantic state, it would become our largest one population-wise, but only barely: With 40.1 million citizens, it would just beat out California's 39.5. However, it would be able to throw its weight around in Washington, because like the Golden State it would have 52 members of the House and 54 electoral votes. 

What if we admitted the Canadian provinces and territories as 13 individual states to split its power? Then it would likely dominate the Senate with a reliable club of 26 Canuckcaucus senators. 

This could be a good deal for Canadians. All of the authority, none of the responsibility. 

Nor would it necessarily be a bad thing for the original fifty, even with Canadian socialism. 

While we may dislike all the Trudeaus here, and clearly a lot of Canada do too, somehow they kept and keep winding up at 24 Sussex. But obviously we are also very good in the USA at sending dunderheads to higher office. We used to joke about the French minority calling the shots for the vast hinterland, making them learn French, but wherever you go in the USA, for Spanish you may marque dos. Unhinged and unaccountable bureaucrats make crippling rules without warning or voter input in both nations. Is there any real difference anymore? 

Canadian Mark Steyn calls his native land the Deranged Dominion, but it was the United States legal system that served him with years of torment and a bad free-speech judgment. He probably suffered more at the hands of Americans thanks to that than he ever did in Canada, even including time spent shoveling snow. Our healthcare system is morphing into socialized misery -- or fascistic misery, with companies in cahoots with the government, and patients getting screwed. Euthanasia can't be far behind, and if the system keeps getting worse, may be welcomed. ("It beats doing all this paperwork!") So can Americans even claim to have benefits of liberty superior to those in Canada? 

I wonder sometimes. 

I wonder if we would all be one huge country now if, as could very easily have happened, the American colonists had lost or given up in the dark years following the signing of the Declaration. 

I'll end with this promise: If it all somehow does come together into the United Canadian States of America, I swear that as Prime President I will enact my goal of refusing to allow any state that does not normally and naturally get ice to have an ice hockey team in the NHL. You have my word. 

Sicklied o'er.

Yesterday the whole town got cloudy, and it had nothing to do with rain, except for the lack thereof. 

I've seen smoke from wildfires around here, in the southern Hudson Valley, but I'd never seen the sky turn a pale, sickly yellow like this. 

Weirder still, this was coming from Canada's wildfires, three hundred miles and more to the north. 

We're under an air quality alert, of course. Everything smells like smoke. People in a local online community were saying they could taste it. I thought it smelled nice, as woodsmoke does, but it bothered some people. One woman posted that her daughter said, "This is what the end of the world looks like." That surprised her dad, who posted "Really?" Well, kids are dramatic. The girl is too young to remember 9/11.

But it is weird. 

I'd like to make a quip about how Canada, which hates smoking so much that they're printing warnings right on the cigarettes, sure is blowing smoke in our faces, and should keep their pollution to themselves. 

Okay, I guess I just did. 

But I'm pulling for the guys who have to go out and try to fight these blazes. It's been super dry here -- "dry as popcorn farts" as one friend unartfully but vividly put it -- and there's no rain in the forecast until at least Monday. It's made the days very comfortable and the nights perfect for sleeping with a window open, but this is the cost. 

Naturally, while all this is going on I heard some idiots nearby practicing with firecrackers, because the Fourth of July is only a month away and they have to get ready. 

So, let's pray this ordeal ends soon, and if you know a good rain dance, pass it along. That sky sure looks sick, and some people with breathing trouble will also.  

Straight as a two-dollar bill.

Got my hands on one of these old beauties while collecting money for a cause last week. You certainly don't see a lot of $2 bills in circulation anymore. 

The United States originally issued two-dollar bills along with the other paper currency after the Legal Tender Act in 1862, and continued to do so until 1966. They always featured Thomas Jefferson, so were sometimes called Toms. The bill never seemed to be as popular as ones, fives, and tens, though, and were thus not printed in as high quantities. In the time the $2 was first printed, it went from being a good deal of money (two days' pay for an unskilled laborer) to a lot less (two hours' pay for unskilled farm work), but neither time nor inflation raised the profile of ol' Tom.  

In 1976 the bill was revived, but the ten-year hiatus had not made it more popular, and it went out of print in 1981. Now they're as seldom seen as the Ike or Susan B. Anthony dollar coins. The Sacagawea coin went out of mint in 2008, so you still see some of them around, but not a lot. I seldom see the newer presidential dollar coins and none of the new "innovation" series, so I think the casinos are hoarding them. 

We just don't like dollar coins in America. I think all coins have an association with cheapness here. The Canadians loved their dollar coin so much they gave it a cute nickname (the Loonie, from the loon on the back). The same goes for their two-dollar coin, which also has a nickname (the Toonie). So even the money in Canada is looney toons. (rim shot)

But coins always got looked down on in the US. I'm not sure when the expression "folding money" (rather than the jingling kind) came into the lingo, as cash worthy of interest, but the oldest reference I know of came from a wartime Fats Waller song, "Cash for Your Trash." The listener is enticed to bring her household trash (old pots and pans and such) to the scrap drive for war use, and receive some money for it, and then canoodle with ol' Fats:

In between we'll do some lovin'

Wide handsome turtle dovin'

Will you listen to me honey

Get plenty of the foldin' money

Yeah, don't settle for that nickel-and-dime stuff; get some actual bills!

As for the two-dollar bill itself, I'd often heard that it was unlucky, but didn't know why. According to Mary Piles, CNB St. Louis Bank Historian (who knew that job existed?), the bad luck tag came from the two being called a deuce, which is also a nickname for the devil. But that's not all! She adds:

One of the reasons the $2 bill was never widely circulated is thought to be due to its negative reputation.

• An urban legend claims that at one time, election rigging was common and the reward for a favorable vote was $2. There was a belief that politicians would purchase votes for $2 therefore, having a $2 bill could be seen as evidence that you had sold your vote. While most likely an urban legend, the myth still gave the bill a sinister reputation.
• In the early 1920s, Prostitution was $2.00 a trick, leading some to refer to the bill as a “whore note.”
• The gambling tracks have a $2.00 window, and if you won, many times you were paid in $2.00 bills. If you were caught with $2’s in your wallet it could lead people to assume you were a gambler.
• The $2 bill was often thought to be bad luck, as “deuce” was a name for the devil. Recipients would tear off one corner, believing it would negate the bad luck of the bill. This caused many of the bills to be taken out of circulation as mutilated currency.

I worked as a teller for a while when I was in school, and I used to buy up $2 bills from other tellers when we cashed out on Friday. That way when I went out drinking with my buddies I would have weird money to draw attention to myself. And I can tell you for a fact that, whether the $2 was lucky or unlucky, I never was. And no, that was not so long ago that (even were I so inclined) I could hire a lady of the evening (ahem) for two bucks. 

There is just one song I know of that mentions a two-dollar bill, by the way (I'd be interested if you know of others). That's Hank Williams's "Hey, Good Lookin'" from 1951. I suspect Hank liked the way it sounded, like money but not a lot of money -- the federal minimum wage in 1951 was 75 cents:

I got a hot rod Ford and a two-dollar bill

And I know a spot right over the hill

There's soda pop and the dancin's free

So if you wanna have fun, come along with me

Less than two years later, Hank was dead, dying on New Year's Day 1953. Was it the mention of the unlucky two that did him in? One has to wonder. 

Out & about.

Or, as our Canadian readers might say, oot & aboot. 

In other words, it's another Pictures from the Road entry! 

This day started off with a pleasant sky; a friend I showed this to said it looked like a macaroni and cheese morning, but I think it's more like a customer got a little crazy at the pizzeria with the Parmesan.  

Someone set up a cute li'l deer sculpture, but as I noted some time ago, most lawn statuary represents things you don't see normally, and we got deer out the bazooty around here. Why put up a statue to one? We know what they look like. Why not a gnome, or a jockey, or a saint? I've never met one of them. Well, maybe a saint or two.

Ouch! This house got it but good. I hope I think of this anytime I dream of a peaceful cottage nestled in the woods. One of those trees gets a little ancient and bam! Tarps and Tyvek and insurance claims, and God I hope no one got hurt. 

Over the in sewer department, looks like the guys halted progress on a job for the weekend. I don't know what that green thing is, but it's a new one of the rusted thing. 

And finally, off to Walmart for the big Back to School extravaganza! On July 9! Go ahead and cry, kids; the days are getting shorter already. 

World Chocolate Day.

Happy World Chocolate Day! The day we celebrate chocolate, because without a holiday we wouldn't celebrate it at all. 

Pictured: A brick of Godiva hobnobbing
with some common chocolate-covered
cashews.

"But Fred," you ask, "isn't EVERY day World Chocolate Day, really?"

And I answer: Yes. But this particular holiday, according to Wikipedia, commemorates the supposed date -- July 7, 1550 -- that chocolate was introduced to Europe. So I guess it's another oppressive white colonialist genocidal holiday, like Columbus Day or Thanksgiving. Look for the usual suspects to start busting into chocolatiers' shops and tearing down their chocolate statues. 

It's hard not to think of Valentine's Day, Easter, Halloween, and Christmas as chocolate holidays, since so much of it is produced for those days, but one also finds lots of chocolate for Jewish holidays, Thanksgiving, and Mother's Day. But wait, there's more! The Wiki page notes that there are other days designated as chocolate-themed holidays, as of course does the National Day page. (Some dates may be different on different years, but these are for 2022.) They are: 

National Chocolate Day (U.S.), October 28

International Chocolate Day, September 13 (which was Milton S. Hershey's birthday)

Latvia World Chocolate Day, July 11

Ghana Chocolate Day, February 14 (so, crossover with Valentine's Day)  

National Chocolate Candy Day, December 28

National Milk Chocolate Day, July 28

National Chocolate Covered Raisin Day, March 24 

National Chocolate Pudding Day, June 26

National Chocolate Pecan Pie Day, August 20

National Cocoa Day, December 13

National German Chocolate Cake Day, June 11

National Chocolate Covered Cashews Day, April 21

National Chocolate Chip Day, May 15

National Chocolate Macaroon Day , June 3

National Caramel Chocolate Day, March 19

National Chocolate Covered Nut Day, February 25

National Chocolate Mint Day, February 19

National Chocolate Cake Day, January 27

National Bittersweet Chocolate Day, January 10

National Bittersweet Chocolate with Almonds Day, November 7

National Chocolate Covered Cherry Day, January 3

National Cream-Filled Chocolates Day (also February 14, which is like piling on now)

National Chocolate Covered Pretzel Day, October 7

National Chocolate Cupcake Day, October 18

National Chocolate Milk Day, September 27

National Chocolate Chip Cookie Day, August 4

National Chocolate Ice Cream Day, June 7

National Chocolate Milkshake Day, September 12

National Hot Chocolate Day, January 31

National Chocolate Mousse Day, April 3

National Chocolate Parfait Day, May 1

National Chocolate Wafer Day, July 3

National Chocolate Soufflé Day, February 28 

National Chocolate Covered Anything Day, December 16

I may have missed some. I'm not even counting the White Chocolate Days because racism. No, because white chocolate isn't real chocolate. But, for the record, National White Chocolate Day is September 22. 

Then there's National Chocolate Month, which is February, and American Chocolate Week, which is the third full week of March. 

That's pretty exhausting, and I kind of feel like between these dates and others that pop up like weeds and normal holidays we probably have the whole calendar covered. Which isn't a bad thing necessarily, but remember! Moderation is key to enjoying chocolate every day. Not that I would know anything about that, but that's what I hear. 

I have known that people are completely crazy about chocolate since the time I was a tot and heard a report on the school playground from a companion who had come back from a family trip to Montreal. He regaled us with stories of chocolate-covered ants, which seemed to me to be a bridge too far and still does. Here's a delicious recipe for chocolate-covered ants, if you're interested. Strangely enough, there does not seem to be a National Chocolate-Covered Ants Day. Maybe in Canada. 

Words without meaning.

A friend of mine got all grumpy because of some fool online. I told him if he was going to let things like that get to him, he was guaranteed to be grumpy all day, every day. 

He made the mistake of commenting on a YouTube video. I know, I know, but he meant well. The video is was a clip from The Red Green Show, a favorite of mine, Canada's gift to the lost art of manhood. Here's Red telling us about his idea to look younger with a fake ID.

Funny? My buddy thought so. He commented something to the effect that he thought it was a great idea to use a fake identification to seem good for his age, but with his luck it would be of an Asian woman. Because my friend is a white man.

Some jackass pops right up and says "Whoa, racist much?"

Now, if you watched the video, which Asshat obviously did not, you see that joke right up front -- Red saying that when he was a teenager, his fake ID was not too successful because it "said I was a 27-year old Oriental woman." IT WAS RIGHT THERE IN THE VIDEO, and my pal was just playing off the gag. And for that, a kneejerk weenie in Mom's basement with a diaper on his head says....

He did defend himself, telling the moron that A) it was funny because he does not look like an Asian woman and B) watch the video. 

I said he shouldn't have bothered. Penectomies like this guy wait all day to drop the R bomb on people online; it's what they live for. Facts be damned. They're miserable people and they deserve to be, but don't let them be contagious.

Besides, it's a known fact that the word racist is now officially meaningless, much as Orwell discovered the word fascist to be by 1944. In both cases a serious term for an idea antithetical to human dignity has been used so loosely by hucksters and the enemies of civilization that it means anything, and thus nothing. We all know how the game is played now. If you see people as they look, you're racist. If you see people as human beings and ignore physical incidents like skin color, you're racist. If you strive to understand the experiences of people of different races, you're "othering" them or playing the white savior and -- guess what? Starts with an R... 

In order to use racism as a weapon, the concept has had to be defined up to the point where it can be deployed against those whose antipathy toward those of other races is nonexistent, or so minuscule it could not be detected with an electron microscope. Here's how the scale looks as used with other human blights:

Racism --> everybody is racist
Famine --> everybody is starving
Pestilence --> everybody has plague
Addiction --> everybody is continuously stoned
Murder --> everybody would kill other people if they could get away with it

When famine means I can't find my favorite flavor of Baskin-Robbins, the word means nothing. (Whatever happened to the Blueberry Cheesecake ice cream anyway, Baskin? Robbins?) And as K-Von, the world's funniest half-Persian comedian, has said, "Leftists are using the word racist as a catchall for everything."

Racism still has something vaguely to do with race, but calling someone a racist now ought to have lost all its punch. Like Orwell's finding of fascist, it basically means someone of whom I disapprove. Since it is most often fired off by pinheads with nothing better to do, or cranks, slicksters, or academicians, one cannot take it seriously anymore. It's probably worth considering that if stupid people who hate civilization attack you unfairly, you're probably doing something right.

Walk-on Womance!

With Christmas on the way, I could not be more excited about this!

Yes, friends, you too might have a chance to win a walk-on role in a Hallmark Channel original movie! I mean, it doesn't have to be one of their 782 Christmas movies, and it'd probably be something not in production yet that will air in 2024, but who cares? Be part of the movie magic!

You also win a "one-year supply of Orville Redenbacher's microwave popcorn" -- I'm not sure how much that would be. I usually don't eat it, and my wife goes through maybe two bags a month, so two of these six-packs would be a one-year supply. But don't tell them! If we win we'll just sell the excess out of the trunk.

"Movies and popcorn have been a beloved combo for generations," said Carrie Swanson, brand director, Orville Redenbacher's. "We're delighted to partner with Hallmark Channel to offer a truly unique movie experience, taking you from in front of your TV to in front of Hallmark Channel cameras for a walk-on role in one of their original productions."

Yay!

It's pretty easy to enter at the official site, but I wondered what the actual prize is. I mean, if I win, will I just be an extra -- Bald Guy #2 in Lobby -- or will it be a speaking part? Really, the prize is a "walk-on role," which would be like Trump in Home Alone 2, right? Just a quick scene, but a memorable one.

Such command, such determination to help, such firm grasp of the facts -- presidential timber, am I right?

I told my wife that if she won she might play Aunt Alice, the relative who mistakenly thinks the hero and heroine are a couple already; they firmly deny it, of course, being at the antagonistic stage of the Meet Cute, but Aunt Alice knows.

"And if I win," I said, "I'd be Uncle Alice! Same thing!"

"Oh, you kids make such a cute couple!"
"Um, we're not a couple, Uncle Alice!"
"No, no, nope, not at all, nope!"
"Well, if you say so! Heh heh heh."

Sadly, the Official Rules say nothing about being a romantic catalyst. You could even wind up on the cutting-room floor:

Exact details surrounding walk-on role opportunity, including, but not limited to, length and scene of walk-on role opportunity and exact Hallmark Channel movie to be determined by Hallmark Channel, in its sole and absolute discretion. Hallmark Channel does not guarantee that walk-on role opportunity will make the final cut of the applicable Hallmark Channel movie.

Boo!

You would still win a trip to wherever they're filming the thing, but they don't know where it will be. We can pretty much bet it will be Vancouver, but it could be some other exotic locale, like Toronto.

It sure as hell won't be New York City. There are many unconvincing things in life, but few of them are as unconvincing as portrayals of New York City on the Hallmark Channel. Their film budget isn't as big as the one for Home Alone 2.

Blow up.

Yesterday I stopped down at the supermarket for a few quick items -- you know, mousetraps, lye, gunpowder -- and noted that the customer service counter was appropriately festive for Cinco de Mayo. 

¡Hurra! 

Everything is a balloon now. You go down to the store, thinking, "I hope I can find a nice Get Well balloon for poor Sam, still suffering from infection from his cut-rate septoplasty. Gee, I wonder if they might have a square balloon?"

Nailed it.

I like balloons, sure. They're festive. They float. They're colorful. It can be a little sad when they get deflated and it's three weeks after the party but you just don't have the heart to bust the Mylar and call it a day. But really, what's not to like? Things that float are always fun.

Last year I followed with interest the Twitter feed of an orange balloon trapped on the ceiling of St. Albert the Great Parish in Calgary. It had lasted past Christmas and I wondered if wagering was going to break out among the followers -- I counted myself as one, even though I'm not on Twitter. Anticipating a fever pitch, I considered reactivating my PayPal account. But before I could get a pool together, the balloon lost its heavenly vantage and returned to earth.

The problem with balloons is, are they wasting helium? Most people aren't aware of the fact that we can't make helium. There's a whale of a lot of it in the universe... but what we have is what we have. And some folks are worried about it.

For years the U.S. strategic helium reserve was cited as a waste of taxpayer money, and following the Cold War, the program was finally killed. But helium does have a lot of uses besides our little floating containers of joy. As Forbes reported in 2017:

Since it's both non-reactive and inert, it can be used at high temperatures and in oxygen-rich environments without a risk of explosion. The speed of sound is almost three times greater in helium than in air, leading to acoustic applications. And at atmospheric pressure but at low temperatures, it liquefies but never solidifies, making it the ultimate coolant for particle accelerators, MRI machines, and superconductors.

And yet when this useful element makes it to the atmosphere, it gets kicked out into space.

I don't know what we can do to solve the upcoming helium crisis. And if I did, no one would listen to me. Even the dogs don't listen to me.

Oh, helium, most noble gas! Number two on the Periodic Table, number one in our hearts. You float our balloons, you float our hearts. What shall we do if you are gone?

Head of the class.

First, I want to thank everyone here, on the Great Lileks's site, and via email (frederick_key AT yahoo.com for those of you still communicating the stone age way, like me) for the kind thoughts following the injury that kept me out of action for a few weeks. Spoiler alert: It was a mild concussion, and thank God it wasn't worse.

Here's what happened:

It was Super Bowl Sunday, February 3. The weather was a bit warmer than it had been, causing some ice and snow to melt. That morning I was reading an important essay, "Ten Reasons to Have a Gravel Driveway," in the book pictured above by the indefatigable Red Green. Number 8 on the list:

8) Inertness. Gravel is rock in a manageable size, so it tends to be virtually impervious to chemicals, heat or impact. So don't worry about any gasoline spills or the resultant fireball--the driveway will be fine. Same thing when you fall off your roof; even if you land on something hard, like your head, the gravel will remain unscathed.

Ha-ha, I laugh hollowly, knowing what was to come. My driveway was paved years ago, and resurfaced during another medical mess last year. A perfect blacktop surface for nighttime accumulation of black ice.

Sunday night I was out there with older dog Tralfaz. As usual, he headed toward the neighbors' yard, and I knew why -- because of the ice melt there would be a delicious mud puddle between the properties, and he enjoys a little digestif. I was standing on the grass by the walkway as I saw his fuzzy butt go in that direction, and I said, "Hey, get back--"

When people get hit on the head in comic books the sound effect is usually Wham or Thud or maybe Pow. But when my head hit the asphalt it was like a Ponk, like a bowling ball bounced off concrete, and no wonder. I have had a lot of experience falling (more about that in a moment) and can usually fall pretty well, making those lovely balletic gyrations that may not prevent the fall but A) slow the effect of gravity, B) help ensure a soft landing spot, like my tush, and C) provide plenty of entertainment for onlookers. That didn't occur this time. My foot hit the invisible patch of ice and I went down so fast I didn't know what was happening until it had happened. Suddenly I was on my back with a terrible pain in my head.

Clutching the old melon, I rolled onto my front, feeling the world lurch around me. I had no idea what happened to Tralfaz, but I thought I heard barking. As it turned out, it was another dog. At that time on a winter's evening I would expect to see no one walking around our quiet neighborhood -- only people dumb enough to own a dog, maybe. Like the guy a few doors up from us, who was standing by me saying, "You okay? You need help?"

Knocked silly as I was, in pain, on the dirty ground, head spinning, in danger of puking, embarrassed, my first thought was along the lines of This reminds me of college. My second thought was Oh my God if he falls down he'll sue. So I said something like, "Slipped on black ice! Stay on the grass!"

He was kind enough to go fetch my wife; I couldn't see anything at that point and I think the dogs may have been barking at each other. While he was ringing my doorbell my pride took over and I made the effort to get up. If you've ever read a passage in a book where someone staggers to his feet, you can picture how I looked. Wobbling, still clutching the head, the whole world spinning around me. I knew it was a concussion immediately; I'd seen athletes do this enough times on TV. But I was determined that unless I was in agony or puking uncontrollably I was not going to go to the hospital. Not on Super Bowl night. There are seven nights you don't want to go to the hospital in America, and the others are Christmas, New Year's, Thanksgiving, Halloween, July Fourth, and St. Patrick's Day. Because you don't want to be in the ER surrounded by drunks. And that's the most unfair thing about the whole business -- I hadn't been drinking! I wasn't even watching the football game! I'd been watching the freaking Puppy Bowl earlier!

My wife, bless her, answered the neighbor's call and got me and Tralfaz inside. She planted me on the sofa, where I found that as long as I promised not to budge an inch, the world would agree not to spin like a top. I remembered that this once happened to Underdog, only in his case it was caused by an alien mastermind. In mine it was caused by winter and my own non-master mind.

So that's where we'll leave this thrilling medical drama for the moment: me on the sofa, gripped by fear and nausea, wife trying to get the dogs settled, the canines worked up, sensing that something is wrong. Will I be smart enough to go to the hospital on Monday? Will the dogs learn to walk themselves on icy nights? Will I suddenly be able to play the piano? Will I DIE from my injuries? Come back Wednesday for our next episode of As the World Turns and Turns and Turns!

Day of the Possum.

Forget this caravan nonsense on our lower border. I have news! The upper border, the one with Canada, the longest border in the world between two countries (and probably the least guarded), is where we need to focus.

The ketchup potato chips were a blatant attack, to be sure, but easily repelled -- or at least they didn't catch on. I haven't seen them lately. No, I am referring to the Maple Front that has just opened, swallowing up one of our national institutions:

Yes! Cheerios has been Maplecized -- the work of Canadian Fifth Columnists!

"Oh, Fred," you scoff. "I'm not scoffing, I'm coughing. Nah, I'm scoffing. Maple proves nothing! Does not maple syrup come from Vermont, Maine, New Hampshire? This could be 100 percent American maple syrup flavoring! After all, this has 'other natural flavors,' so it's clearly not all real maple syrup -- more of a maple-like product, perhaps, like Log Cabin (American as Lincoln!) or Vermont Maid (so Vermonty!). So stuff the paranoia, Fred."

And I reply: Sez you! (I always win arguments with the imaginary voices.) As always we turn to the Cereal Project run by Mr. Breakfast for answers. He does not provide a review of Maple Cheerios, but he writes as follows:

This cereal was first introduced in Canada in 2017 as a special edition product celebrating Canada's 150th anniversary. It came to the U.S. in the fall of 2018.

AHA!

The back of the box has games and some trivia; the latter section notes that it takes 40 gallons of maple sap to make one gallon of maple syrup. You see why they're spreading this kind of talk, right? Two words: Maple. Embargo.

It comes right after getting vast swatches of the U.S. population addicted to their product.

Fortunately I am on the case. While so many are distracted by that mob at our southern border -- which the media tell me are just plucky ragamuffins looking for a chance to mow our lawns and clean our toilets and open fabulous ethnic restaurants -- I am looking north, where the real menace is. Of course their leader, Prime Minster Zoolander, would never openly attack our nation; we outnumber them ten to one and we have a leader who, whatever his faults, likes to fight. But Zoolander has sent his secret operatives to undermine us, using maple and ketchup.

I haven't figured out the details of the plan yet. I think I have a line on the main operative, though. The coded message quando omni flunkus moritati has been traced to a snowback contingent. And there's been this photo of a man who is said to be their leader, who gets the movement to stick together. He is sometimes known as: The Possum.

Keep your eyes peeled, and your stick on the ice, my brothers.

Canadian duplicity.

I first heard about ketchup potato chips a few years ago when editing a novel. The author had a character who was obsessed with ketchup-flavored potato chips. I scowled -- was there such a thing? I looked online and discovered that, sure enough, these were very big -- in Canada. The author, as it happened, is Canadian.

Since then, I wondered if Canada was holding out on us, and why. Surely it's common knowledge that Americans love ketchup, even if it is now only our second- or possibly third-favorite condiment. And Canada makes a lot of prepared foods that America loves, like candy. Or at least they have been; perhaps NAFTA 2.0 will quash some of that off-shore manufacturing.

But I suspect that Canada, or as that brilliant theologian Fr. Jim Chern calls it, Fake America, has been holding out on us. I think they somehow embargoed ketchup potato chips for years, secretly laughing in their chip-crumb-covered wickedness, at how they pulled one over on us. But somehow Lays has managed to get some bags to the consumer in the U.S.of A., at least for a limited time, and I scored one.

I asked my friends about it, and a buddy posted on Facebook about it and asked his friends. One person he found the idea disgusting but he had seen ketchup chips in France. Figures, the Quebecois would ship chips to their mother country and not to Real America. Another guy had tried them, liked them. Others were unethused by the idea. "Betcha can eat just one" was my favorite reply. Still, some were more philosophical: "Hey, it's still a potato chip."

So I tried them. And... they taste like barbecue potato chips. I can hardly tell the difference. Not surprising, since ketchup forms the basis for many or even most of our favorite BBQ sauces. These chips are fine if you like that. Otherwise, it was not worth the fight with the snowbacks to the north and their PM Zoolander.

If we want to go to war with Fake America, I suppose we can still find a reason. Here's one. I'm still mad about compromising over 54" 40° or Fight. If the Mexicans can demand the original borders of Mexico back, I say we need to demand the original Oregon Country back.

Come on, gang! Vancouver or bust! Let's go! Let's do it for Polk! Win one for the Polkster! What do you say?

Oh, Canada...

I hate to bother our neighbors to the north, I really do. They must think of us as the annoying downstairs tenants who are always making a racket. And yet we have so much in common. Coasts. Rockies. Transcontinental railroads. Football leagues that other people in the world don't understand.

But I must take my broom and rap on the 49th parallel north, and ask them if they would PLEASE do something about these stupid BIRDS of theirs.

I know birds have to do that bird thing, and migratory birds are notorious non-respecters of legal national borders, however well marked. So sure, like the European swallow, or the gold-plated government-union pixel-pusher, Canadian geese must go south in the winter.

My problem is, they are not going far enough south.

Spotted in our area in January. January, people!

New York's Hudson Valley, beautiful as it is, is no one idea of "south" in any meaningful sense. I'm sure you Canadians who plan to vacation someplace warm do not stop in Kingston and say, "This is just as good as Miami, eh?" (And don't tell me you don't say "eh"---I've been there, I've heard it.) No, our winters are hardly better than those for the bulk of the Canadian populace, clustered around their lower border. So why must your geese overstay their welcome?

Surely it is not unreasonable to expect a migratory bird to see the leaves descending in October and November and say, "Welp, time to mosey on down" and "Next stop, Arkansas!" They could easily follow the line of denuding trees through the late fall, passing by us before Christmas and staying away until April. Why is this so hard?

As you can see in the above photo, they have completely taken over the little island of the gazebo, turning it into Geesebo Isle, and any bride who had hoped to take wedding pictures there had better have duck boots and help of the whole wedding party to keep her train clear of the ground. Is this how a civilized nation behaves?

No, I say, and I expect you to do something with these geese of yours.

My idea to put a Goose in Every Pot has run into trouble with the usual suspects. If one mentions that these birds are at the lowest point on the endangered scale---"Least Concern," which is about a step above "Actual Menace"---and that a few dedicated men with piano wire could make Goose McNuggets out of the lot in short order, some jackass inevitably starts complaining about threats to Canadian goose subspecies. So our parks are overflowing with goose feces, and what do you care, eh, Canada? You're probably glad to be rid of them for the season.

This has got to stop, and I fully expect some maple-flavored cooperation with this project. I will be happiest with some pledge to eliminate or re-route these feathered fiends, but will be satisfied with a plan to get them to shorten their stay here along their migratory flight plan.

Contact me at frederick_key AT yahoo.com and we will see if we can arrive at some meeting of the minds. But please: No French.