Magic Portal to Skinny, New You Is Full of Tongue, Teeth and Stuff

Wouldn’t it be great to lose weight without giving up any of your delicious favourite foods or grunting and sweating through hours of tedious exercise? It turns out, the magic gateway to the slim and sexy you has been right under your nose all along.

That’s right. Now you can Talk Yourself Thin™ using the same pie hole that got you into this mess to begin with.

Using our patent-pending Talk Yourself Thin™ system, the pounds will float away on a breeze, like advice given to your kids.

How is this possible? It’s science. Exhaled breath is mainly made up of water. Heavy, heavy water. In addition to that, it contains more than 250 chemicals, and chemicals weigh a lot. Talk enough and you’ll blow those unwanted pounds right out of your system.

Want to drop a pound? Recite the Gettysburg Address out loud 16 times. Want to lose more? Explain Bitcoin to your dad, or “being woke” to your gran.

“But wait,” you say. You’ve been talking your whole life and you’ve still got enough spare blub to sculpt a handsome lard baby.

Well, sure you do. You’ve been talking all wrong.

Think about it. When do you talk? You go out for a gab over drinks and nachos with friends. You talk with family over meals. You conflab with coworkers over donuts and muffins. And, you’ve been inhaling the calories of everyone you talk with. In short, you have been keeping your body in balance.

The secret to the patent-pending Talk Yourself Thin™ system is long, pointless conversations with yourself. “But I’ll look crazy,” You say. Yes, crazy sexy.

Do you like eating? Do you like talking? Then you’ll love Talk Yourself Thin™.

Talk Yourself Thin™ was developed by Skinny Dreams Ltd. These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA and for all you know may be true. Not available in stores.

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Golf and Marriage: Don’t let your new husband use my clubs

In golf, as in marriage, a man’s reach should exceed his grasp.

 

About 30 years ago — the same year I took up marriage — I started playing golf. Today I shot a 122. For those unfamiliar with golf scoring but who know how to keep score in marriage, let me put it this way. Today I left every toilet seat up, forgot our anniversary and her birthday, dropped dirty underwear on the kitchen floor, left the cap off the toothpaste, forgot to pick up the kids, insulted my mother-in-law, drank milk from the carton. And on the par five ninth hole I slept with the nanny. I did everything wrong that can be done wrong.

My favourite golf joke:
Why do they call it “golf?”
I don’t know. Why do they call it “golf?”
Because “fuck” was already taken.

If my marital performance was still as bad as my golf game, I would have been smothered in my sleep decades ago. Unfortunately, mercy killing in golf is discouraged as ungentlemanly.

Golf and marriage follow a similar trajectory. It seems like a good idea at the time. You jump in. It’s much harder than you expected. But with practice and patience you get better. You deal with things as they come up. Impossible pin placements. Water and sand hazards. You learn from mistakes. You correct behaviours that lead to painful outcomes. Or you avoid them. You know you’re never going to hit that three-iron or make that flop shot, so you play it safe to avoid a snow man or a cold shoulder. Eventually your missteps become fewer.

A relevant side note:
A former colleague of mine (@bethteitell) recently wrote a brilliant piece for the Boston Globe about one of the issues couples start discussing later in life – what the surviving person needs to know when the other partner dies first. It can be read here.

The golfing corollary is to discuss what happens to your clubs when you die, which reminds me of another golf joke.

A husband and wife are lying awake in bed late at night, talking about the important things spouses talk about in the quiet darkness at the end of the day, like whether you put out the garbage, turned on the dishwasher or killed the spider in the laundry room, and removed its carcass.

Husband: If I die first, do you think you’ll remarry?
Wife: Oh, I don’t know. I don’t like to think about those things.
Husband: (After a contemplative pause) I think you should remarry. I’d hate to think of you living out your days alone.
Wife: OK, if you say so. Now go to sleep.
Husband: (Another contemplative pause) Do you think you’d live in this house?
Wife: What?
Husband: You and your new husband. Would you live in this house?
Wife: (a bit impatient) I don’t know. Sure. We’d live in this house.
Husband: (Contemplative pause) Would you sleep in this bed?
Wife: (chuckles and decides to play along) Yes. I like this bed. It’s comfortable. I’d keep this bed.
Husband: (pause) I guess that makes sense. OK, good night.
Wife: Good night, you moron.
Husband: (Pause) Just one other thing. Live in the house, sleep in this bed, but don’t let the new guy use my golf clubs. I really don’t want him to use my golf clubs.
Wife: (No pause.) Oh, don’t worry about that. He’s left-handed.

I like to think I have gotten better at marriage; become a better husband. But someone else has to make that call.
I know I have not become a better golfer. There is data. Scores don’t lie. Golf’s goal is to achieve the lowest score you can.

This fact tees up another interesting comparison between golf and marriage. Both are more enjoyable when you don’t keep score. So I try to learn from my mistakes, stay within myself, not swing too hard, savour the good shoots and let go of the bad ones. And all the while, enjoy the walk with a great companion.

One more golf joke:
Two golfers are ready to play on the 11th tee as a funeral procession motors passes by. The first player stops, removes his cap, and bows his head respectfully as the hearse passes.
“That was a really nice thing to do,” the second golfer says. “It’s good to see there is still some respect in the world.”
“Well, it’s only right,” the first golfer replies. “I was married to her for 35 years.

 

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Trump Does Canada Part 2 – Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Three months into President Trump’s first term, Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau attends the first official meeting of the two leaders, in the White House Oval Office. Media wags dubbed it the Blow-Dry Summit. The president chuckled to himself the first time he read that. Yeah, hair today, gone tomorrow, pretty boy, he thought.

“Mr. President, congratulations on your victory,” the boyishly charming Canadian prime minister said at his first official call on President Donald Trump. “The American people have embraced your message and your business experience. I’m looking forward to a productive, business-like relationship.”

“Welcome to the new Trump W House,” the president beamed. “How do you like what we’ve done with the place? Taken an 18th-century pile of rubble and turned it into a real five-star, luxury seat of government, fit for a king.”

Trudeau had seen the gold dome that had been added atop the south portico, emblazoned with “TRUMP W,” and a half-dozen coloured lasers shooting off into space. A little much for his taste but maybe he was just being too Canadian.

“We’re going to add two rows of fountains down the south lawn. It’s going to be spectacular. This is going to be the best seat of government in the world. Someone’s finally giving the American people what they deserve.”

“Yes, umm, yes, that is really something,” Trudeau said.

“Yeah, those W Hotel people tried to sue us for trademark infringement but they are going to be busy, what with being audited for the last seven years.”

After a photo opp and brief social niceties, President Trump stood.

“Hey, I have an idea. I’ll bet you’ve never seen the W’s Situation Room. Let’s finish our first meeting down there. It will be historic.”

Trump moved to a door in the curved wall of the Oval office and waved Trudeau to follow. The president led the way down a corridor from the Oval Office. A pair of Marine guards on either side of the door to the Situation Room, sharp in their dress blue tunics and black-brimmed white hats, snapped to attention. Their commander in chief waved a half-hearted salute in return and one of the Marine guards unhooked the burgundy velvet rope that hung between two brass stands in front of the door. Trump led the young PM into the room.

“No cover charge for heads of state.”

“Very impressive,” said the young prime minister, looking at a wall covered in monitors and streaming information. “But it seems we may be interrupting a meeting.”

In fact, it seemed most of President Trump’s new Cabinet was seated around a large boardroom table. Tall, busty waitresses in tiny Roman togas served cocktails.

“No, no interruption. This meeting is for you.”

“Cocktails in the afternoon? Are we celebrating?”

“Well, I guess we will be, but the cocktails are just part of my new plan to make the Trump W into a profit centre. There’s a three-drink minimum for meetings here. What will you start with? We’ve got an amber TrumpAle. Maybe Some TrumPinot. Or we can go right to the TrumPain. Can’t spell it like champagne because the French get mad, and we don’t want that. But mine is much better, anyway.”

“I’ll stick with water, thanks.”

“Okay, but we have to charge you for the drinks. Rules are rules. Tracy, will you get Justin a cold TrumpAgua?”

The Situation
“Justin, may I call you Justin? Better than calling you Jeb, what a boob,” he laughed. “You probably know I’m a straight shooter. That’s what the American people expect from me and that’s what works best, so I’m just going to come right out and say what’s on my mind.”

“Of course, Mr. President. Let’s do politics different than our predecessors. Let’s just be honest with each other.”

“Justin, I like you. I met your mom once at Studio 54 and she was hot. I probably had sex with her. I had sex with all the hot ones, you know, with my big hands. Hey, maybe you’re my son. Wouldn’t that be something? Could be. People think you’re hot, so maybe you got that from me. But I don’t think so because the truth is, you’re a loser. No offense. You’re a loser from a loser-nation. So I’m going to bring you onto a winning team. The United States is going to take over Canada and you’re all going to be winners.. We’re all going to be one big happy family. You can even call me dad. I promised to make America great again and there’s no reason Canada can’t be a part of Greater America.”

Trudeau felt like his head was spinning. Maybe there’s something in the TrumpAgua, he thought. Maybe he’s still at home in bed at 24 Sussex.

To be continued…

(To see Part I, http://bitly.com/29ZrDTa)

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A Father’s Day Confession — The Seven Daddy Sins

By Geoffrey Rowan

For almost every father I’ve known, nothing brings more happiness than fatherhood. It feeds our souls in the face of inner devils, ambitions, victories, defeats and even the sports channel. On Fathers’ Day, it is we who are thankful – that we get to be fathers. Sure, bring on the ties, cologne and dog-eared books from the discount bin but even if the day passed unrecognized, we would feel we won life’s lottery.

That said, the way we feel may not always be reflected in the way we act. “I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions,” said the writer Augusten Burroughs. “Me too,” said I.

In the interests of coming clean, I freely confess to these seven deadly sins of my flawed fatherhood efforts – the seven daddy sins.

Sloth – As you always suspected, I was not sound asleep and unable to hear the baby crying. Sorry.
Lust – But I was awake enough for that.
Gluttony – Once you have developed a taste for gnawed, drool-coated teething-biscuit ends, you have lost any claim on dignity. Mac-and-cheese from the kitchen floor, baggies of stale Cheerios and crushed cheese sticks in every pocket, and who put Oreos and Fudgeos in the grocery cart? I did.
Pride – Thank god my kids are better than yours.
Envy – Why aren’t my kids as good as yours?
Anger – I literally had just fallen asleep when you decided to see who could hit the highest note the loudest.
Greed – I want to hang onto this forever. Don’t you dare grow up.

Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, from one imperfect dad on behalf of compadres everywhere, thanks for every day, and happy Father’s Day.

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