I think, based on my experience of idly gawking at covers of trash mags while waiting in the line-up at Tingley's, that Khloe is the fat divorced Kardashian who is always grumbling publicly about her failed relationships...and posing for corpulent bikini shots on a tropical beach....all the while mulling over her terrible life and plotting for a financial windfall when she becomes a spokesperson for Weight Watchers, Jenny Kraig or Kurves. She's likely also plotting to bag a professional athlete. At least I think it was Khloe. Or was it Kim, Kourtney or Kylie?
Are they from Harvey Station, Ian? Just wondering.
I don't think so. Anyways, too much talk about average people and their average lives. My readership of three is far above average. You know it to be true, that's why you've hung in with today's blog knowing that there is a pony in this pile of dung. You're optimists.
A pony, Ian?
Yes, a pony. Do you not remember the pony joke?
I hate horses.
Me too, but this is a joke about optimism more so than horses. Here it is for old time's sake:
The joke concerns twin boys of five or six. Worried that the boys had developed extreme personalities -- one was a total pessimist, the other a total optimist -- their parents took them to a psychiatrist.
First the psychiatrist treated the pessimist. Trying to brighten his outlook, the psychiatrist took him to a room piled to the ceiling with brand-new toys. But instead of yelping with delight, the little boy burst into tears. "What's the matter?" the psychiatrist asked, baffled. "Don't you want to play with any of the toys?" "Yes," the little boy bawled, "but if I did I'd only break them."
Next the psychiatrist treated the optimist. Trying to dampen his out look, the psychiatrist took him to a room piled to the ceiling with horse manure. But instead of wrinkling his nose in disgust, the optimist emitted just the yelp of delight the psychiatrist had been hoping to hear from his brother, the pessimist. Then he clambered to the top of the pile, dropped to his knees, and began gleefully digging out scoop after scoop with his bare hands. "What do you think you're doing?" the psychiatrist asked, just as baffled by the optimist as he had been by the pessimist. "With all this manure," the little boy replied, beaming, "there must be a pony in here somewhere!"
How can today's blog be about the Kardashians and optimism? They seem incompatible.
It isn't. Today's blog is about the Scottish language. Everything up to this point has just been filler, like when the Village Idiots open for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.
I see, I think.
Today's image shows my newly painted bathroom. Being above average myself, at least in height, I chose the colour for the bathroom based on one thing and one thing alone: the Scottish language. Actually, it was even more specific than that. I based it on the Scottish language sub-sect, Doric. It's the language of Aberdeen and it's virtually incomprehensible.
A few days ago I entered the Home Depot in search of some bathroom paint. I knew that I wanted something in the citrus realm, preferably orange. I walked up to the paint swatches, picked one up and noticed that it was called 'whiskers'. Be aye en gee oh! Whiskers, pronounced in Doric, would be 'fuskers'. The letters 'wh' are often pronounced as an 'f'. Oddly enough, Julian and I had recently adopted the Doric word for whiskers as our swear word of choice. When things aren't going well we like to say we're fuskered. For example, when Wendy was going over the jump in our sledding video, we sensed that she was fuskered when she went over the handlebars. Good thing she was in shape, or what?
Or what?
The word 'what', in Doric, is pronounced 'fit'. Having had this mini lesson in Doric, you can now go back to the title of this blog and translate it. You'll see that the image goes well with the potty mouthed title.
I find all of this very confusing. I just don't get it.
So, would you say you're fuskered?
Most definitely.
Well, then you get it.
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