I really meant to do *this* forever ago. But really, it practically mocks itself. The TSA’s good catches of 2011–every single one of them being things that would have been caught and taken away pre-9/11. Well, everything dangerous, anyway. They didn’t start getting quite that paranoid until recently. Just how paranoid?

TSA confiscates a butter knife from an airline pilot. TSA confiscates a teenage girl’s purse with an embroidered handgun design. TSA confiscates a 4-inch plastic rifle from a GI Joe action doll on the grounds that it’s a “replica weapon.” TSA confiscates a liquid-filled baby rattle from airline pilot’s infant daughter. TSA confiscates a plastic “Star Wars” lightsaber from a toddler.

Feel safer yet, US folks? No? Well, okay. How about now?

Of all the many complaints about airport security and the TSA, one of the most common is that they make little distinction between plausible security threats and passengers unlikely to be doing anything wrong.

And a recent incident in Wichita, Kansas has reinforced that argument, as a four-year-old girl was apparently subjected to a humiliating ordeal after she hugged her grandmother while she was waiting in line.

The girl was accused of having a gun and declared a ‘high security threat’, while agents threatened to shut down the whole airport if she could not be calmed down.

When asked about the overbearing treatment the girl received, a TSA spokesman did not apologise and insisted that correct procedures had been followed.

Keep going, TSA. Sooner or later, you’re bound to catch you a terrorist. Hey, maybe you can put that on 2012′s best catches list. Or how about just admit your system’s a little tiny bit busted? Yeah, somehow I didn’t think so.

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If ever I have a reason to deal with US immigration in future, can somebody please very politely slap me upside the head with something blunt and heavy? Thanks. They don’t seem to be in possession of a degree of inteligence lately. A 14-year-old girl ran away from home and was later arrested for shoplifting. She fed police a fake name–what 14-year-old hasn’t done that, if they thought it’d keep them from catching shit–and that name just so happened to belong to someone wanted by the Colombian government. So the police handed her over to immigration–who promptly took her fingerprints and, uh, deported her anyway. Her grandmother only found out about it, uh, this year (this happened in 2010). I wonder how long it’ll take them to undo this mess–and how much of its web sensorship practices are playing a part in why no one knew of it until, uh, 2012?

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Apparently all it takes to become a knight these days is being partly responsible for Apple’s mamoth crushing of just about anything that competes with it–whether it’s deserved or not. The guy who was behind the original design of the original iPhone, iPod and iPad has officially been knighted. For uh, being responsible for Apple’s mamoth crushing of pretty much everything that competes with it. Is now a bad time to say I’m contemplating what will be the eventual replaceement for the iPhone I didn’t really want?

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Spend 5 minutes surfing this blog. Guaranteed, you’ll find at least one entry in which I’m screaming about the economy, or kicking someone in the teeth for dangling a job in front of me and then running like hell the other way with it. I might be a little tiny bit desperate at times. And then I get one of these emails–and suddenly, all I am is a little bit snickering.

Let’s be honest, James, most people say they are not satisfied with their job, and yet they drag their butts out of beds every single morning and go to work. Most people say they want a seconds paycheck, but very few actually do something to get one. Most people say they are underpaid, but still they continue to settle for the same pathetic paycheck year after year. Most people will tell you they want a better life for themselves and their families, but how many of them are willing to take the steps necessary to accomplish that?

If you are not like most people and are truly interested in making a real change for yourself and the ones you love, then you have to read this message like it’s last thing you will ever read in your life, because in as little as 15 minutes you may have a second paycheck mailed to you.

Every time someone sends one of these, an angel loses her wings. Which might also help to explain a few folks I know but that’s another entry. Still, gotta admire their persistance–this is the second email they’ve sent me. Now, then. About that second paycheck…

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Yes, yes, yes, I’m way behind. And I have things saved that are long overdue to be ranted upon–but the following 3 links, just… really… what more can be said?

• I get the thrill of joining the “mile high club”. Really, I do. I’d never *do* it, mostly because those seats are damned uncomfortable on their own, but I get it. Here’s the thing, though. I thought a plain was required? And no, I don’t mean to jump out of–although, nice touch, guys.
• Growing up around guns, you tend to learn two very important things. Keep them out of the reach of small children, and don’t take them to the bathroom. Well, okay, so maybe some folks only learn one. Hey, Darwin? I’ve got one.
• Very, very few folks will be familiar with my actual reason for leaving the W Ross school when I did. In terms of readership, very few folks will probably even be filliar with the W Ross. One school in New Jersey, though, seems to be borrowing right from the school’s handbook–and has decided a a no hugging policy would absolutely rock. Yeah, I’m not getting it either. But I’m probably not supposed to.
• And of course, I’m forgetting entirely the entire mess with SIPA (go internets go!) and the newest form of what the yarf from that corner of the world, CISPA (hey internet? Yeah, can we do it again?). Both bills mock themselves, but if you’re not entirely familiar with the latter, these guys have a pretty good take on it. And yeah, it’s a little bit what the yarf.

It’s amazing the things I miss when I’m being tossed in 6 different directions. And later, I get to prod the TSA in the eye with something hot. Again. God, I miss that. As for now, though, enjoy reading. Just remember the rules–if you’re gonna snark, do it in the comments. That’s why we’ve got ‘em.

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… Along comes this admittedly slightly not so recent news story. Guy posts a status update about the anniversary of his mother’s death. Whole bunch of people click that damned annoying like button about it, thusly inflating his ego to about the size of the Goodyear blymp. His estranged wife, recently separated, doesn’t. Now, if he’s a sane kind of guy, he figures, oh, well, she’ll probably say something later. Or not. It’s only Facebook. But if he’s a sane kind of guy, he doesn’t get a mention on this blog–or on Techdirt, where I initially ran into this story. Since he’s ending up in both places, it’s reasonable to assume rather than be sane, he decided to get drunk and attack his wife over the absense of a click on that damned like button. Yeah, I don’t get it either–but then, I also don’t hang out on Facebook. I wonder. Will they let him post from his cell? Jail cell, I mean. And will she like his arrest notification?

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And apparently, only at the Great american Beer Festival–or, at least, that’s where it was discovered. In Denver, earlier this month. Forget the bacon and eggs as your hangover food. Now, it can be part of a complete smashing. Just add chocolate. Or don’t. Apparently, it goes just as good on its own. Now. Where’s mine?

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Toronto has all manner of somewhat decent hockey teams–hey, the Leafs aren’t in last place yet, okay? But I’d still rather gouge my own eyes out with a pitchfork than consider living there. One of the reasons for that would be city councellor Giorgio Mammoliti, who’s recently made headlines for suggesting that Toronto should become its own province. Let’s put this into perspective just a little. Toronto’s previous mayor, David Miller, pretty much spent the hell out of what money he got from the province of Ontario–and some extra, just to make sure he got it all. Current mayor Rob Ford is insisting he can cut spending, and all he’s managed to do is cut his support–in more than half, actually. Oh yeah, and Toronto’s still spending money like it’s going out of style. So why does councellor Mammoliti want Toronto to be its own province, you may ask?

He told the Toronto Sun he is frustrated federal and provincial governments aren’t doing enough for municipalities.

He maintained if Toronto was a province it would qualify for transfer payments from Ottawa.

So, basicly, if toronto was a province, the rest of Canada would have to give them more money they likely would have just as much (read: absolutely no) trouble finding things to do with due to the way equalization’s been set up, and the fact they’re bleeding red out both ends. Yeah, tell you what. No. Spend a few million less, then maybe talk to us about separation. Quebec could use some company on that front. Or better yet, just get rid of Giorgio Mammoliti.

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For those of you who don’t know, JAWS for Windows is the screenreader that some of us in the blind community use to be able to do things like, well, post random pointlessly amusing things like this to our respective blogs at half past late in the morning. You can find more information on the screenreader, and grab yourself a 40-minute demo, over here. When it’s not being a screenreader, though, it’s taken up singing as a secondary passtime. It’s still only a beginner, but there’s potential. Just have a listen for yourself. Folks reading along via RSS or LiveJournal may need to click on over to the actual site to listen. Sorry.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Consider this when planning your next family function. It could be a huge success. Or it could flop. We here at WTN take no responsibility for either–but we *will* take your barely entertaining recordings.

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Actually, it stopped seeming appropriate about 6 months ago, but now it’s ridiculously so. And in clear “The public doesn’t need to know” fashion, every single one of these is propped up by the usual TSA denial of “We didn’t do anything wrong”, or “We don’t know what s/he’s talking about”, or “We’re not telling you”. Exhibit A: “They took my insulin and ice packs” versus “No we didn’t, she’s lying”. Exhibit B: “You escentially raped me!” versus “Remove your blog post or I’ll sue you for defamation!”. And exhibit C: “Yes, I set off your alarm, but I have implants–and their paperwork!” Versus “We followed procedure. Oh, but, uh, we’re sorry. Promise.”. Still looking for new expansions on their abreviation. Will accept suggestions until the next time the TSA does something that makes me go WTF. In the meantime, hey Greyhound? I’ve got a ton of extra business for you. Look up my contact info–we’ll talk.

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I want to start this entry off with a comment like “Only in America.” or something to that affect, but I don’t even know anymore. Still, this one’s from California, so do with it what you will. A Glendale man decided, rather than wait for a date with the nearest hospital to have a hernia taken care of, he’d do it himself–with a butter knife. Haven’t heard anything new on this since that particular story came out, but he was placed on psychiatric hold for 72 hours and promptly taken exactly where he should have been. No idea whatsoever why he decided to take the do it yourself route, but I guess being a little messed in the head’s a good enough reason about it. When they say don’t try this at home, though, I’m fairly sure they mean stuff kind of exactly like this. But, as they say in my favourite book series, it takes all kinds. This kind should just be kept far, far away from sharp objects.

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As anyone who’s anyone on Twitter knows, just about any and every link you throw on the site now, including links to posts on this site, gets automatically wrapped in their t.co shortener–yes, even if the link’s already been shortened. They announced the rollout in June, and as of yesterday or the day before, have made it pretty much automatic and global. While some clients have developed workarounds, most of them get to put up with automatic URL shortening. Which, yes, is wonderful and great and convenient in theory. Except for one very minor little catch. Links, particularly links posted from this site and others like it, are already shortened through Bitly–we used TinyURL before that. In 99.999% of cases, they’re already small enough to fit inside their 140-character limit. Shortening them again just seems kind of like a waste of resources, really. And yet, there’s no real way to turn off the service on your account–meaning, unless you’re using a client or service who’s already coded a way around t.co, which most apparently haven’t yet, your shortened link is shortened yet again–often to no real benefit (19 character URLs versus 20? Really?). T.co is awesome, in theory. In practice? T.CNo. Just sayin’.

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Reason number 874329701 why antipiracy laws 99.9% of the time don’t actually do a damn bit of, well, what they’re supposed to. Industry and political officials assume you’re guilty, even if you don’t actually know exactly what you’re supposed to be guilty of. Take a case in france, for example, of a 54-year-old teacher who had his internet access revoked after blowing through their 3-strike policy. His only real crime, according to info available? Not knowing how to secure his wi-fi. And, for not being entirely that technical, rather than give the guy a hand with it, France disconnected him. Meanwhile, the person(s) doing the piracy over his network? Off they go to find a coffee shop to sit in while they download the latest episode of House or something. Yep, you won that round, government of France. Guy who owns the unsecured network sure got an education. Too bad it wasn’t what you thought it was.

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I’ve gotten spam before. We all have. I’ve posted the more amusing and/or strange pieces of it before. I can safely say, though, I got nothing stranger than this until, well, this. Clearly, someone out there thinks I’ve got a lot more money than I do. Or they wanna give me a house on a decent piece of land for free. The original was in french, but because I’m not a cruel bastard, have the Google translated version.

Bastides stone – Provence
If this message does not display correctly, click here.
 
 
 
 
 
PROVENCE (Gard Provençal)
 
Close to Uzes, OPUS Development offers
This stone country farmhouse of 150 m2 habitable with
swimming pool, terrace and large Mediterranean garden of 1200 m2.
 
Panoramic view of the plain of the Duchy of Uzès. Aspect South.
 
20 minutes from the TGV station and 30 minutes from the airport of Nimes.
 
Contact us at: + 33 (0) 4 67 60 63 76
 
 
 
 
Land Development | Property Development
OPUS Development SARL
4, rue de la Bourse Treasurers – 34000 Montpellier
Tel: + 33 (0) 4 67 60 63 76 – Fax: + 33 (0) 4 67 60 72 04
 
  This shopping mall is in line with current legislation and the deliberations of the CNIL of 22 and 30 March 2005 on the e-mail marketing.
According to the law “and Freedoms” of January 6, 1978, you have the right to access, modify, rectify and delete data concerning you.
To unsubscribe, click here.

Tell you what. I’ll trade you this wicked little apartment in Ottawa I know of…

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Anyone miss the good old days when 95% of the mockery *wasn’t* caused by the US or Canadian governments? Tne Transport Security Administration (TSA) apparently doesn’t. In round 8975641 of the government versus your right not to be randomly groped before you can go on your way, the TSA steps up their game to include inventing a charge and arresting a woman. Her official charge? Disorderly conduct. The actual charge? Refusing to let a TSA agent give her daughter a pat-down.

“I still don’t want someone to see our bodies naked,” the mom is reported to have replied.

As for the pat-down option, the police report states that the mom didn’t want her daughter to be “touched inappropriately or have her “crotch grabbed.”

TSA agents say she became belligerent and verbally abusive. The woman was arrested and charged with disorderly conduct.

Suddenly, I feel a whole lot safer should I ever lose my mind and decide to fly into the US. No, wait, that’s not entirely accurate–that would be relief. Relief in not ever actually planning to fly into the US. Yeah, that’s it.

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I’d love to actually meet these two unnamed individuals for the sole purpose of shaking their hands for coming up with this bright idea. Right before I punch both of them in the face and hold out for the local cops. Two people in the south end of the city have come up with the brilliant idea of finding out if a house is occupied by ringing the doorbell. If it’s empty, they break in, disable the alarm, and–presumedly–help themselves to what’s there. If someone’s actually home, they have themselves a prepared script asking if the occupant has items for sale, or some other trivial matter that would bring random folks to your door at random o’clock in the afternoon/evening. An actual smart couple of criminals–who knew? If ever they wind up answering the door for an undercover cop, mocking them might actually be a challenge. thank God I like a challenge.

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Before I go tearing into this guy, I’m first going to say right here I have absolutely no problem whatsoever with what people choose to wear–or, in some cases, not wear–on their own time, and in their own home. In fact, if some people knew how I dressed when I’m not planning to go anywhere, they’d probably have some not so pleasant names for me–and I’d probably still promise to maybe eventually find 30 seconds to care. But there’s such a thing as being presentable in public. That does not, contrary to the beliefs of some, include presenting yourself, sans clothing, at an A and W drive through where a teenager happened to be working.

In this case, Brian Coldin runs a noodist resort in central Ontario, and thought he might go grab himself a burger from the A and W not entirely too far away. Only problem is, well, his idea of appropriate atire stopped being appropriate when he cleared the border of his resort. He pulled up, placed his order, and gave the poor girl working drive through a little more than she probably wanted to look at. And now, he’s trying to have the laws changed in such a way that showing up at somewhere like a drive through sans any kind of clothing is perfectly acceptable.

Okay, referring back to how I dress at home, I have absolutely no problem with somebody who wants to go around their own place with absolutely nothing on–I personally wouldn’t go strictly and completely no clothes, but I get why some people would. And that’s perfectly fine–in your own home. But, really, if I’m going out somewhere–yeah, even a drive through, I’m damn well finding a shirt and a pair of freaking pants first. Yes, even if it’s mid-June and too goddamn hot degrees outside–just because I’m perfectly comfortable doing it doesn’t mean the several hundred people I need to interact with in a typical day out are going to be–or should be expected to be–comfortable seeing it. But then, I’m also used to the general rule of no shoes, no shirt, no service–but that’s just me.

You don’t go to work on a typical day expecting to see a naked dood–or chick, for that matter–pull up to your window and hand you payment for a burger he or she produced from–I won’t even guess where. In fact, we put people in jail who usually carry that expectation in public–usually because it leads to something else a little less innocent than hoping to see a lot more than a little skin.

A small note to mister Coldin. I don’t care how naked you want to be or for how long. Neither does this judge. Neither does the rest of central Ontario. Just do it on your own property, for cryin’ out loud–just because we don’t care doesn’t mean we want to look at, or serve, random naked dood from local naked people resort. And if, by accident, you actually win this case, I seriously hope to see a lot more “No shoes, no shirt, no service” signs. Otherwise, my out to dinner outfit–and I will still wear an actual outfit–will include a bottle of disinfectant. Just sayin’.

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So a new World Health Organization (WHO) study came out earlier this week potentially classifying your cell phone as a class 2B carcinogen. In other words, possibly carcinogenic. In simpler terms, potentially cancer-inducing. Yay. Go World Health Organization. In response to this, the 80 millionth study declaring such things (soon to follow: the 80 millionth study declaring the opposite), Ontario’s NDP would like to see warning labels indicating the things are potentially linked to cancer slapped on any and all cell phone by the manufacturer. And now, Ontario’s government is investigating the issue. For a little perspective, the Ontario NDP–and potentially our liberal government–is investigating the results of the World Health Organization’s having just potentially tossed cell phones into the same category as, we’ll say, coffee. Or pickles. And now it’s time for warning labels. Watch this space. Next month, beware of early morning caffination–it’ll kill you. Only in Ontario.

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I’ve mocked the Transport Security Administration before. Strangely, doing so has resulted in less of an uproar than mocking ODSP folks. Of course, it also hasn’t changed much. In this most recent case, the TSA continues to insist it’s perfectly A-Okay to be very intimately groped during a preflight search–in spite of the fact if they’d done it outside of a security checkpoint, the groping officer would be sitting on the other side of some very thick metal bars right about now. Now, though, it’s not just A-Okay. Now, it’s apparently the politically correct thing to do. Want proof? For that, I take you to Texas, where the government there has threatened to make these pat-downs illegal in the state. In response, the justice department has equally threatened to ban all flights out of Texas. Yessir, you just read that correctly. Don’t approve of the searches? Tough cookies. You either start approving or don’t fly out of texas. They started approving real fast. Way to go, TSA. Just way to go. Anyone else want another reason to take the bus?

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I may or may not have made reference before to folks who get it in their heads that wi-fi has this issue wherein it’s exceedingly damaging in some way, shape or form. I may or may not have indicated that camp gets its ideas from the most ridiculous of sources–like, for instance, children developing mysterious symptoms of illness while at school, and feeling perfectly fine on weekends. Now, I catch wind of word coming out of Europe that some politicians would like to see an end to wi-fi. For the children, of course. They base it off of some studies comparing wi-fi to such things as second-hand smoke. Really. I’m not creative enough to make that up. Sounds more like the biggest risk to our collective health at the moment are these politicians.

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Disclaimer: If you’re not of a technical mind, or things like hard drive failures make you run screaming in the other direction, you may want to skip this post. Just a friendly warning from your neighbourhood undercaffinated geek. Particularly when the fake ones in question leave not just you, but your equally technically inclined roommate, staring at the computer as though it’s just sprouted its very own artificial-ish inteligence.

Take this weekend, for instance. I’m minding my own on a Friday evening, trying to invent the best and least hair-pulling way to introduce updates by email–and comments, by the way, not just replies–to the blog, when the desktop decides to throw not one, or two, or three, but nearly a dozen warning and critical error messages at my face. Everything from hard drive failures to RAM usage being critically high, to flat out memory failures. Now, keep in mind, this machine’s nearly 4 years old and just had its wireless card replaced–twice, mind you, so one or two failures of that nature wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility. So I’m going through the usual diagnostic steps, doing what you do when you’re under the distinct impression your primary machine’s about 30 seconds from going flatline and you’ve got absolutely no spare parts kicking around, when this innocent enough looking “Windows XP Recovery” window crops up. It helpfully informs me that Windows is suffering damage possibly related to bad sectors on the drive. This along side yet another of those dialogue boxes cropping up informing me one or more IDE/SATA drives are about ready to self-shoot.

By this point, I’m more than a little WTF-ing. I *just* meaning less than a week ago, had a Dell tech out this way to replace the network card. Was I *really* going to have to have another one out to replace at least one failing drive and lord only knows what else? Not to mention the roommate just 48 hours prior to that got the pleasure of dealing with his very own failing hard drive and the replacement of same–in fact for much of Friday evening, while I was diagnosing, the running joke was that apparently hard drive failures had now become as airborn as your common virus. But I got curious. The only Windows XP recovery utilities, particularly utilities that bare that name, are usually found on the XP CD–and certainly don’t randomly show up when Windows is loaded, though sometimes I think that might be helpful. Enter that tiny little alarm going quietly off in the back of my head while I go hunting for my usual fix me tools.

I keep 3 tools one hand for incidents kinda like this one–one spyware scanner, one virus scanner, one nuke ‘em all tool. Because I was testing a theory, and if I was right it would at least manage to nail most of it, I loaded–and fired–the nuke ‘em all tool first. Sure enough, within about 2 minutes of the utility running, Windows XP Recovery took a hike. And so did its small army of warnings and alerts and whatever else managed to show up. Yay! I’m free! Except not quite. I nuked the majority of the infection, and probably caught the source, but there was still damage. Have my desktop was toast, and I’m pretty sure I was missing things out of my start menu on top of that. Nice. Wonderful. Nifty. Easily fixed.

I ran my other two tools, which took a little longer than I’d of liked to finish–but they finished and nothing broke, so I’m happy, and removed what I think might have been the last remains of the thing. Easily delt with by a simple reboot. Now, there was just the issue of half my desktop and probably some of my start menu going completely snap all over the floor. Because I was sick and tired of fighting with it, a system restore took care of that–and then some. Yay, again. I took care of what I thought needed taking care of manually, then went on the hunt for info.

Apparently, the infection I just went around with is new. Extremely new. As in I’ve seen postings as early as May 13th, but no older so far. To the tune of every forum, blog, website etc I know to check has something on it. And still, it managed to sneak by my usually pretty solid defenses.

All told, I’d way rather have just had an actual hardware failure. Or several, to be completely honest. The fake ones were a bitch to knock out. Now, to find where I hid my emergency back-up material–just in case.

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I’ve never been to a shawarma restaurant. Nor have I ever had shawarma. Hell, before I moved to Ottawa I’d never even really heard of the stuff. But I’d still support a restaurant of that variety who wanted to stick up for the home team–yes, even if the home team was those bastards from Montreal. The NHL has a different take on it, apparently. One such restaurant near the Bell center thought it might be fun to hang a poster with a cartoon character in a Canadians jersey slicing shawarma with a sword, with the phrase “Go Habs go!” underneath it. The NHL sent him a letter indicating he was in violation of copyright, so the restaurant owner painted over the Canadians logo. They sent him another, indicating the phrase “Go Habs go!” was also trademarked, so he painted over that. He eventually just took the sign down. You’d think that would satisfy the NHL, right? Clearly, you don’t know comissioner Betmman. Instead of being satisfied they’d finally intimidated a local restaurant into not giving the team and the league some much needed free advertising, they rewarded him by demanding he pay $89000 to the league, or $1000 per day of the sign’s existence.

I’ll be the first to say it aughta be illegal to support the Canadians. But then, I’m a Leafs fan–I can say that. But to take it to this level, and claim copyright violations over something that would very obviously be fair use if Canada had a fair use clause, just smacks of “I don’t care”. The team was, and I have to hold my nose to type this, actually doing well, but still couldn’t be hurt by a little extra free advertising. The restaurant was in close enough proximity to the arena that supporting the team, whether or not the owner of the place is a diehard fan, makes perfect business sense for the restaurant and perfect PR sense for the NHL and the Canadians. And instead of recognising that, the NHL slaps a local restaurant in the face and sends a shakedown notice–compensation for using a logo and a phrase they say is trademarked (I’ll believe it when I see it). Now tell me Canada doesn’t need some serious copyright reform.

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Moving is almost always a 2-week exercise in waiting. Sometimes, it’s even a 2 month exercise in waiting. There’s the waiting for the approval in the new place. There’s the waiting for the confirmation the new place won’t fall down around the previous tenant’s ears before he moves out, nevermind before you move in. There’s the waiting on things to finally cancel themselves out at the old place so you’re not paying for phone or electricity services you’re not gonna need anymore. There’s the waiting for confirmation you’ve got your vehicle of choice ready to throw your entire life into the back and hope like hell it comes off that vehicle in one piece. And there’s the waiting to see how long it takes before multiple people blow a blood vescel with the help of the company renting you the afore mentioned vehicle containing your entire life. That was escentially last weekend for me.

I finally got the approval for the apartment officially, and subsequently blogged–again–about it. Which meant in about 45 seconds, everything and its dog got cancelled, transfered, delayed until its effective cancelation date, packed in a box or otherwise done away with. So all we had to do was the easy part–pick up the UHaul trailer, load it, get it to the other end, offload it. Easy, right? Except for those parts where it wasn’t.

Because of scheduling issues with the primary driver, we had to have someone else go pick up the trailer on Friday. Now, standard procedure would be the thing passes at least one safety inspection before it’s allowed to leave the lot, nevermind any last minute checks that get done as it’s on its way out. Standard procedure. Unless, apparently, the trailer’s being rented in Petawawa. It got to my parents’ place, where it would be spending the night until we were ready to use it, initact. Well, mostly. The primary driver did his usual run around to make sure everything was appropriately glooed in place the next morning, and discovered it was obviously put through its safety inspection pre-departure by someone who just so happened to be nearly as blind as me. There were no working clearance lights on the trailer. Not overall a huge matter–they aren’t exceedingly used for a whole lot anyway. But, there were also no working break lights on the trailer. Yeah, as you could probably guess, that posed a small problem. So we were shoved 4 hours behind schedule while that got looked into. No huge dealy, really–we still got loaded that day. And the garage we took the trailer to was more than willing to bill UHaul directly for the repair work–an offer, I have to admit, at which I spent the rest of the day snickering. So we get everything to Ottawa, it’s intact, and the trailer hasn’t blown itself to pieces inexplicably. Cause for cellebration–which we did after everything was offloaded. But not before we made an attempt at taking the trailer to its final resting place–well, as far as we were concerned, anyway.

See, the thing about being in Ottawa is there’s half a million UHaul locations capable of receiving vehicles like this between here and the east side. The bad thing about living in Ottawa is there’s half a million UHaul locations who could easily decide they don’t want to let us make them this trailer’s final resting place. We were given the address of, what we would later find out was a small little convenience store type dealy or something. That convenience store type dealy just so happened to be registered UHaul location, so UHaul told us “Yeah, sure, go ahead and drop off that trailer over there. They won’t mind.”. They did. And made it very clear they did. Which prompted us sitting in their parking lot while my father, who happens to share my name and can do things like this, called up UHaul and unloaded with both barels. The end result was spending a few more minutes at $1.40 per liter driving across town to their primary drop location for the Ottawa area, and finally getting rid of that trailer.

So, we eventually got everything loaded. We eventually got the trailer tossed somewhere that isn’t attached to the back of one of our vehicles. And smartly, UHaul hasn’t as yet tried to turn around and bill me for their failed safety inspection. And all it took was the twisting of approximately 3 arms, and the smashing together of the equivalent of two heads. Not bad for a weekend. For the right price, UHaul. At this whole organization and basic covering your ass thing? UFail.

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Until a couple days ago, I had no idea if you were a member of the RCMP, you were entitled to use stress as a defense against an assault charge–even if the assault charge was because you pounded on an innmate. Apparently, if you’re an RCMP officer in Alberta, that’s the defense that keeps you out of jail. An RCMP officer, after admitting he did a number on an innmate who’d already gotten whacked one in a bar fight, blames the stress of having been one of the officers called to the scene after the murders of 4 police officers.

Now, before folks jump all over me for being a cold and uncaring bastard, I get that it’s a mental kick in the teeth dealing with something like that. Obviously he worked with and was probably friends with those people, so yeah it’s going to be hard. I get that. But if you’re still bothered/stressed over that kinda thing, the absolute last place you should be is right back at work–particularly work wherein you’re dealing with other people. And the absolute last thing you should be doing is leaning on that as an excuse for having lost it and pounded the crap out of some shmuck you brought in on charges of his own. And yet, that’s precisely what this officer did, and then walked away from it.

Maybe I’m a nutter over here, but if average Joe who’d just been handed a craptacular week or two, complete with losing a family member, friend, coworker or whatever, haulled off and let some other average guy have it, he’d be sitting in jail right now for–oh–we’ll call it a year or two. This guy? Nope not so much. Six-month conditional sentence, 3 of which spent under house arrest. Barely a tap on the wrist–and still nowhere near the 6-9 months in jail that was asked for. And all because of stress. Guess it really does pay to be in law enforcement. Where do I sign up?

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This entry is about to get me added to the Transport Security Administration’s suspicious character list. Along with everyone else who’s ever had a small problem with the way they do things. From the “reasons I won’t fly” department, the absolute best justification for ever having had to grope a 6-year-old kid, of all things. And by best, I mean Worst. justification. ever. “It’s standard operating procedure.” Really, TSA? That’s the best thing you guys could come up with? Did you even try? Parents teach their kids to throw a major fit when random people they don’t know try touching them in places they shouldn’t be, and you give us… that? I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again–if you’re going to come up with a line of bullshit, at least make the damn thing reasonably good. On the bright side, we’ve discovered more than just their security scanners are shamefully useless. Now. Where’s this open government Obama was so big on for the last, oh, forever?

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