The Jetblue Blues

             Unless you’ve been living entirely out of the news loop recently, perhaps camping or just coming out of a coma, you must have heard about the flamboyant flake who quit his job at JetBlue Airlines in a blaze of media-fuelled glory. He allegedly (we news guys can say anything we want if we preface it with the word “allegedly”) got irate at a customer who smacked him on the head with some luggage and refused to apologize or some such. It’s hard to say because many of the reports of the original altercation are more vague than a politician answering questions about his college days. The flighty attendant, one Steven Slater, was said to have (almost as good as “was alleged to”) then flounced off to the galley and proceeded to commandeer the intercom to give the passengers a totally different in-flight instruction than they were used to. He told the assembled customers in general and his new nemesis in particular, to “F___ off”, swiped a couple beers (he was, possibly, an undercover Canadian) and slid down the emergency escape to make his getaway. He somehow managed to evade airport security (not a particularly difficult feat, apparently) and made his way home.  A media circus that would make P. T. Barnum jealous was, of course, on hand when police showed up to arrest him on a couple charges but he appeared happy enough when he was led off. He was obviously enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame.
             The situation has brought into focus a number of issues that require more examination than a Paris Hilton home video. The first facet of this story that troubles me is the fact that his creative resignation technique has raised the bar on leaving one’s employment. Suddenly, it’s just not good enough to yell “I quit!” and go off in a huff (or a car or bike or whatever). Now, your exit strategy has to be worthy of a YouTube video, appearances on all the talk shows and a book deal. To steal the limelight from other guys who are going to “go flight attendant” (formerly “go postal”) they will have to do even crazier and outrageous stunts to capture the public’s ephemeral attention span. What’s next? Giving the CEO a “wet willy” at the annual shareholders meeting then streaking out of the convention centre? Where will it all lead to?  This can`t be good.
             Another issue this guy’s daring departure raises is the fear this is the beginning of a trend where  service industries workers are going to  demand to be treated like human beings. On the surface, this may seem like a reasonable request given that their jobs are often stressful, low-paying and difficult. Take flight attendants for example, since we’re on the topic. Their list of responsibilities includes everything from thwarting would-be terrorists and hijackers to handing out amazingly small packages of peanuts and slinging beer. After all, an airplane is essentially a flying tavern where you aren’t allowed to toss out the drunks. (The paperwork after such an event would be staggering, much like some customers.) The attendants are both bartenders and bouncers that also hand out itty-bitty pillows when you’re sleepy. And yet many are treated poorly by their cranky customers because, in our society, like so many others, the service class is fair game for our grumpy tirades. We pay their salary, by gum, and we expect to be treated better than royalty, which airline ads with their smiley-faced actors lead us to expect. Then reality hits.  You mix 300+ parts stressed out air traveller with seven parts airline employees, add liquor and what you have is a recipe for trouble.
               If this trend continues, society may suffer dire consequences. If you are a wee bit curt with the teenaged Timmy`s toiler making your ice capp, is he/she going to spazz out and fling the delicious, icy treat in your face, then flee the scene amid the strobes of paparazzi camera flashes? The people behind you that must now wait even longer in line for their toffee coffee and Timbits are going to want blood; namely yours. We may all end up being forced to be civil to every single person in the service sector, yet another group we’ve never had to be nice to before. Where’s the fairness in that?
              The last wrinkle to this story we need to explore is the personal consequences of Mr. Slater’s great escape. After giving the paying public the finger with more fanfare than Michael Jackson’s funeral, who would ever hire him? How could any self-respecting HR manager (there must be one or two out there) trust a man known to be demonstrably willing to tell their hard-won, paying customers to eff off? Even worse, he stole beer! That`s lower than Michael Ignatieff`s approval rating. When he slid down the inflatable slide to freedom, his chances for future employment plunged downward even faster. Very few companies will take a chance on a temperamental, surly employee. There’s nothing left for him but the civil service. Poor guy.

Golfing with Bob

        I love golf, as stupid as the concept is; a cross-country driving range with a whole whack of “spot the little white ball in amongst all the little white mushroom caps and little white dandelion fluffs ” thrown in. Still, it is a sport I enjoy immensely. The fact that you’re not only allowed beer while you’re playing, but actively encouraged to drink it, is a major plus. They even send out sweet young things with cooler carts to sell it to you! Heck, I’d buy one even if I didn’t drink!
One of my favourite golfing partners (if by ‘partner’ I mean someone I ardently hope does poorly and screws up so I can come out ahead... much like a marriage partner) is my oldest brother, Bob. To say that my fine frère is a real character is an understatement in the league of “the Edmonton Eskimos are a wee bit unlucky this year”.
        I had just come home from another successful golf outing with Bob (successful in that we returned home with more balls than we left with; our principal goal) and felt a bit sore. The room was dark to keep it cool from the evening sun and I collapsed into the recliner with The Golf Network (aka Nap TV) muttering in the background. Slowly, inevitably, my eyelids grew heavier than Lady Gaga’s makeup. With the golf announcers’ hushed tones mingling with my recent adventures on the links, I was suddenly transported to the first tee off with Bob, except this time, we had a gallery much like at the Master’s, and our game was being broadcast internationally. We take you now to the first tee in this most fateful of all golf match-ups between bitter rivals Bob and Chris.
Announcer #1: Well, David, it is a beautiful day here at Thorsby Golf and Temporary Shack and here comes Bob to tee off. He is dressed in his trademark work coveralls and silly hat. The crowd shrinks back a bit, remembering how often he lets fly off the toe of his driver.
Announcer #2: Bob addresses the ball.... here’s the backswing and.... ooohhhhh, swing and a miss. He is going to call that one a practise swing and line up again. The crowd takes another discrete step back...Okay, here’s the backswing again and... oh dear, he shanked it into the water to the right of the fairway about a hundred yards up.
Announcer #1: That’s not that big of a problem to him, David, as he will just beat the weeds around the hazard until he finds a ball and then claim it was the one he lost.
Announcer #2: Right you are, Jim. That manoeuvre is almost as well known in the local golf community as the fact that Chris’ favourite club, aside from his ball retriever, is the “foot club” whereby he gives his ball a bit of a kick to get a better lie.
Announcer #1: And here comes Chris now, decked out in a Pink Floyd tee shirt and jean cutoffs, his legs covered in a thick layer of mosquitoes. They almost look like grey leg warmers from the 70’s.
Announcer #2: Here’s Chris’ backswing and.... oh my gosh! He’s hit an old lady in the gallery square in the forehead! Chris tells Bob it is an unnatural hazard and that he gets another drive. The crowd is well back now with some spectators hiding behind trees or fatter spectators. And here comes his shot and..... He topped the ball! The ball has at least made it just past the ladies tee, sparing him the indignity of that old tradition.
Announcer #1: I noticed that Chris’ club went about ten yards farther than his ball.
Announcer #2: Yes, he’s got quite an arm on him when he’s frustrated. May I, at this time, remind viewers there are a lot more interesting thing on other networks...
Announcer #1: Okay so now Bob has “found” his ball in the reeds by the water hazard and with a splendid drive off the steel toe of his work boot has landed in the middle of the fairway. The crowd applauds appreciatively at the irony. Apparently, Chris isn’t the only one with a foot club in his bag.
Announcer #2: Chris is trying out his fairway driver and... he hit the ground behind the ball! The ball has gone ahead maybe a foot. Chris slams his driver against the ground and trades it for a 3 iron in disgust. He takes another mighty swing and sends the ball forward another twenty yards.
Announcer #1: Did you see the size of that divot, David? I’ve seen smaller chunks of turf on a sod truck.
Announcer #2: I’d have to agree, Jim. We haven’t seen dirt like that flying around since the last municipal election.
         At this point, Cupcake woke me from my reverie to help set the table for supper. I was very relieved. Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Jiggle Giggle

        Last week Cupcake and I decided we would try something new, something just a little out of our comfort zone, something that would get our blood coursing through our invigorated bodies. (No, I’m not talking about playing strip Boggle.) Our friend, Leah, stalwart of the Calmar Prairie Players, owns a “spa” in Devon and has a pair of wonderful machines designed to do just that. She claimed the effects on the body’s various interior systems after just a  ten minute ride, was the equivalent of an hour’s worth of exercise, albeit without the cardiovascular workout.
“Don’t worry,” I assured her jokingly, “If I want to get my heart rate up, I just try and use my debit card.” I could almost see her make a mental note to charge me in advance should I become a client.
Although a bit uneasy about the whole procedure, I was heartened when we walked in the door. When I envisioned a “spa” I was thinking of some darkened sanctum loaded with women lying about with mudpacks on their faces and cucumber slices on their eyes.   This looked more like a doctor’s office only brighter and cheerier, although it did have its scary side. While showing us around, she displayed a small room which contained a machine that looked like a trickle charger for a car battery. I was relieved when she quickly closed the door.  She claimed that machine was just for specific areas of the body. I am glad she didn’t go into those specifics.
Then came the moment I was dreading; the pre-procedure baseline measurements. She measured my thighs, my biceps, and my waist, with which she had a bit of trouble with her short arms. She wanted to measure all kinds of other things such as my jowls but mercifully let me off the hook as it was just a trial basis.
After the last measurement, which was standing on the scales (Dang!) I finally set foot on the miraculous machine. The way it works is that you stand on this wobbly platform while the trained professional punches in your vital statistics. Then after coming up with your ideal personalized regimen, the contraption generates a vigorous vibration that is designed to get your precious bodily fluids churning and detoxifying and circulating faster than a hot piece of gossip. Or something like that.
According to the literature, the use of this miraculous machine can not only improve your body tone, but have a positive influence on everything from increasing bone density to heightened lymphatic drainage. I didn’t even know my lymphatics needed draining. There were 28 conditions in all that the literature claimed to help improve, ease or cure. On this list were some pretty serious illnesses such as Multiple Sclerosis and Fibromyalgia, as well as maladies I had no idea what they even were, like the listing for “frozen shoulder”. I’d gotten the cold shoulder from Cupcake a number of times but I didn’t realize it was a precursor to a serious chronic illness.
The machine started off vibrating gently. It was weird to see my entire body jiggling in the mirror strategically placed in front of the machine. I have never been more thankful I was wearing clothing. I snuck a peak over at the adjoining machine Cupcake was occupying. Although she was jiggling too, somehow it looked better on her than me.
The machine audibly increased in tempo, as did the violent shaking of the looser areas of skin (i.e. everything but my shins and ankles). I took particular note that Santa’s bowl full of jelly’s got nothing on me.
I found that by flexing different muscles; knees, arms, stomach, etc, (yes, I have stomach muscles) it would actually transfer the vibrating energy to different parts of the body. I was quite astonished when I discovered tightening my ab muscles caused the flab in my face to shake uncontrollably. I was afraid spit would fly in every direction if I dared open my mouth.
“Ifff n-n-nothththing e-e-else I  h-h-have i-isssol-lat-ted w-w-whichch p-partss n-n-need t-t-ton-ning,” I manage to say to Cupcake with the machine at full throttle.
“Looks like all of them from my perspective,” she answered calmly, already in the “cool down” mode. All too quickly, the ten minutes was up and I got off the machine with knees wobblier than they were in the wee hours of the dart wind up.
“Wow, that was quite a ride!” I enthused. “I’m sure I had it at warp factor ten!”
“Well, actually, I noticed the machine only topped out at three,” Leah chuckled. “We save the higher settings for the advanced users.”
I was both disappointed and relieved at the same time. While I like to try everything to the max, I also didn’t want my loose flesh jiggling off my body.
We still have one more visit before the final measurements will be taken but I probably wouldn’t have shared my vital statistics. There are some things inquiring minds really don’t want to know.

Canada's Worst Handyman

        Cupcake is full of ideas. Sadly, they are predominately ideas of things for me to do. Her most recent brainwave was for a bicycle shelter. She figured by freeing the bikes from our storage shed, we could shift stuff from the garage to the place where the bikes now reside. This, she claimed, would create space in the garage for what’s now in the attic which would provide room to store the items she wanted out of her storage closet in the den.
Not wanting to become lost in the bizarre labyrinth of what she uses for logic, I focused on the part that had something to do with me. "You want me to build a bike shelter just so you can clean out a cupboard?" I asked doubtfully. “Is that really necessary?"
It’s not that I’m lazy (despite all the rumours) but if I was on a TV show it would be more like “Canada’s Worst Handyman” than “Extreme Home Makeover”. In fact, I’d rather watch The Women's Television Network than the House and Garden network, as all I see it as is Chore TV. I tried to get it blocked so Cupcake wouldn’t get any more big ideas but failed miserably just because she pays the bill for it. The problem is these TV guys can cut all their wood for a project ahead of time and it all fits together during the assembly stage. Cupcake thinks all men are born with this knowledge. She believes within the X-chromosome is a set of Popular Mechanics and that if she can dream it, I can build it. And being a male of the species, I have never told her different.
"Of course it’s necessary," she responded. "We have all those old 2X4’s kicking around and there’s plywood in the garage you’ve been saving for who knows how long. It won’t cost a dime. What more do you need?"
I privately had to admit she was right. I had everything I needed, other than skill, energy and motivation. I still wasn’t too thrilled, though. Carpentry is darned hard work involving frequent trips to the bank, the hardware store and occasionally the emergency department at the hospital.
Despite my distaste for construction work, however, I pretended to agree to the task, thinking there may yet be a way out if I played along. I had to convince her I was serious so she wouldn’t be suspicious if things didn’t pan out.
To demonstrate by enthusiasm, I donned my sturdy leather tool belt with the nail pouches, pencil sheath and hammer holster. Although it invariably pulls my pants down (the curse of a flat posterior) I still love to wear it. Nothing gets the old testosterone going like a good tool belt, other than maybe an AK47.
I strapped on the belt like I was girding for battle, then marched outside; sureness in my step. I then marched back inside, poured myself a coffee and sat down.
"Are you done already?" she asked in jest. (She uses that one a lot.)
"No, I just forgot to ask an important question," I responded tentatively. "What, exactly, do you mean by a ‘bike shed’? I don’t want it half built and you going ‘That’s not what I want, at all’.”
As expected, her concept of sheltering bicycles was different from mine. Hers included a gabled roof with upper hatches, shelving on both sides, and room for four bicycles, two lawnmowers and a large plastic wheelbarrow. I was surprised she hadn’t included a full bathroom.
"What?" I exclaimed. "No rec-room in the basement?"
"Very funny," she snapped. "You’re lucky I decided against the feature wall."
I pointed out we only had five sheets of plywood and if she wanted a more elaborate structure, we’d have to save up materials and wouldn’t be able to build it that weekend. I sketched out a simple construct with an open front and a roof sloping to the back. It looked like a small-scale machine shed. I knew she would hate it.
"I’m afraid with our available material; this is all we could build. I’m sure you want something nicer," I said, trying to sound regretful.
"You mean, if I agree to this, you could build it this weekend?" she asked pointedly.
"Well, I suppose…um…I’m…uh," I gulped.
"Well it’s not so bad," she said looking at the drawing. “Kind of quaint, really. It looks like what I originally thought of before I got ambitious with the cupboards and whatnot."
I winced as I saw the trap close in on me.
"You said you could have it finished by Sunday? That would be terrific. Thanks, honey!" she exclaimed, "I knew I could get you to do it, I mean, I knew you would do it for me because you love me."
I sighed as I stood, yanking up my tool belt again. No sense protesting, I knew I’d been had.
P.S. During construction, Cupcake was busy, too. Now the new ‘bike shed’ is filled with stuff from the garage, the attic and the closet while the bikes are back in the storage shed.

A Drizzle Fizzle

          In many middle to far-eastern countries, (far to middlin’?) they are known by the Swahili name; “monsoon”; rain storms, both vicious and unrelenting that are almost as lethal as an Iraqi election. In the Philippines, they are called “tag-ulan”, in Haiti, “muason” but around these parts, they call it “Chris and Cupcake’s summer holidays”.
           I don’t know what it is but for darned near every summer of Cupcake’s and my married life, our week off has been characterized by hard rains, hypothermia-inducing temperatures and more grumpiness than a bus load of seniors facing a Depends shortage. This year was no exception. As you may have guessed from last week’s torrential rainfalls, it was time our attempt at a dry (in the meteorological sense) holiday for myself and my bitter better half. Sadly, as usual, Mother Nature, with her perverse sense of humour, had other plans.
            The devastation that our week off wreaked on our community was tragic. We drove up and down every street in Calmar and in those ten minutes, we saw more people hauling out soggy sofas and besotted broadloom than after Hurricane Katrina. (Mind you, Calmar survived Katrina fairly unscathed). Instead of the Prime Minister flying to the disaster zone as prime ministerial-types like to do (as if their very presence will staunch the rain, dry out basements and demoldify drywall) all that happened was the office of the assistant to the undersecretary of the interior sent us a nasty letter strongly suggesting in future, we take our vacations abroad, ideally in a rogue, enemy state like North Korea or Holland. Frankly, I’m surprised we aren’t approached by drought-stricken areas begging us to holiday in these regions to relieve their moisture problems. I’m sure if Cupcake and I took a year-long sabbatical in Africa, it would lead to the creation of Lake Sahara.
            It’s not like we pick the same weekend every year, either. How dumb do you think we are? (That was a rhetorical question, so don’t bother sending in letters and emails with your answers.)We have tried every week from early July to late August and it doesn’t make any difference. The weekend our vacation begins, the weatherman gets beaten with an ugly stick. One memorable year in particular, we planned our time off for the last week of August only to have it snow a good six inches. Cupcake, as they say, was not amused. I felt almost as much anguish as she did but drew the line at making crank calls to Environment Canada like Cupcake threatened to do.
        “Arrggghhhh!” Cupcake emoted as the sky turned black last Monday, the first day of our vacation. “I don’t believe this. Every year it’s the same thing.”
          I should add that interspersed with her statement were terms not suitable for this space.  In fact some of the terms would have had the late, great George Carlin adding to his famous list.
          “Now, Honey,” I quickly interjected. “This would be a great time to do some ‘chillaxin’.
          “If I wanted to do some ‘chillaxin’ as you call it, I would want to be doing it in the sun in the pool or on a beach, not on the stupid recliner. I sit on the recliner every day. The thrill is gone, you know?”
          “We can go outside and pretend it`s nice out and just accept the fact we`re not made of sugar and won`t melt away. We can putter in the yard maybe.”
           “That`s a great idea,” Cupcake spat, telegraphing the fact she didn`t think it was that great of an idea. “You can start by trimming the hedge with our electric trimmer. I get to watch you plug it in when you`re out in THAT.”
            She pointed dramatically at the sheets of water pouring out of the heavens and laughed maniacally.“Very funny.” I grunted. “Do you take me for a moron?”
“Well you’re the one that suggested we try heating the pool with our toaster.”
            “Okay, I get your point,” I sighed. When Cupcake gets mad, the best thing to do is just let her be mad. When she achieves a certain level of unhappiness, even Eeyore is easier to cheer up.
             As the week wore on, however, Cupcake and I, as usual, adjusted to our fate.  We went on a shopping expedition which helped to mollify her. Spending money seems to lighten her mood as much as my wallet. Still, some things are worth the cost, even if they only increase my quality of life as much as, say, pillow shams or a new candle powered potpourri boiler jobby to go with her other dozen.
            We also ate out at restaurants a lot, too, as barbecuing was out of the question and holidays are no time to make messes somebody would have to clean up.
            “I think the key is that at least we had togetherness,” I waxed philosophic as our holiday drew to a close with a gloriously sunny Sunday.
             “That’s true, dear,” Cupcake patted my leg kindly. “Even a bad day with you beats a good day at work.” I looked at her quizzically. “Uhhh... thanks... I think.”

Signs of Summer

         Ah, summer. You can sure see the signs. The flesh-scorching daytime temperatures that inevitably lead to dazzling lightning attacks that pound the earth so vigorously it loosens your back teeth and scares the wits out of anyone who has ever seen the movie Twister. Then there’s the constant whine of mosquitoes in search of blood engorged flesh much like my own to feast on. One gets so vigilant to the feeling of something landing on us, we slap at any slight touch - a blade of grass, a tuft of dandelion fluff, a spouse that stops talking to you for the rest of the day until you admit it was on purpose. Then there’s the endless parade of motor homes, truck and camper units, tent trailers and fifth wheel monstrosities all whizzing by as people try and "get away from it all" only to discover they brought it all with them. The irony is lost on them in their focussed determination to get ahead of the gigantic Winnebago ahead of them, not caring there are still dozens, if not hundreds of Winnebagos ahead of that one.
          But to me, the surest signs of all that summer is really upon us in all its glory, is the ever present "garage sale" signs. They set my heart a-fluttering like a debutante at prom.
          Being "Mr. Wise Shopper" (not "Joe Skinflint", as some would believe) I truly appreciate the incredible bargains available to those with the patience and persistence to dig through piles of junk to locate rare treasures. To me, this is recycling at its best; probably heartily endorsed by Dr. David Suzuki himself. (I bet the good doctor has a house just crammed with garage sale goodies.)
           In fact, you wouldn't believe the haul I got last weekend. I bought a stereo, a set of encyclopedias, a cheese slicer and an electric razor. Guess how much I paid for all that stuff. Fifty dollars? Uh uh, too high. Forty? No, sirree. Try $17.10 for the whole works. What a deal. I almost felt guilty taking it.
           This was high quality stuff, too; real top drawer. The stereo, for example, plays both records and 8 tracks and even has a system whereby you can stack up four or five albums on the turntable and they will drop down and play automatically, almost like one of those fancy CD players. Of course after the third disc drops down onto the rest, it kind of slows down the motor so the Bee Gees start sounding a lot like Barry White on downers, but this can be a good thing. Actually the 8 track makes a similar noise when it starts “eating the tapes” but since 8 tracks of everything from Abba to Z Z Top are only ten cents a piece at garage sales, who cares?
          You wouldn't believe the encyclopedia set, either. It's the 1964 Encyclopedia Britannica and not only does it look brand new, but it's also almost complete. I have never been that interested in people or places that start with L, N or T, anyway. I just can't wait til I need to look something up! Who needs Google? (Well, I do for anything beginning with L, N or T, I suppose.)
          I will admit I'm a little disappointed in the razor however. Being a discriminating purchaser, I made sure it worked before I bought it, but I didn't actually test it on my face. Perhaps I should have, however, because it appears that the three rotary blades, although they do go around, don't seem to go around fast enough. This means that instead of the whirling blades cutting the hairs off evenly at skin level, they actually grab hunks of hair and yanks them out by the roots. The pain is both exquisite and profound. Since it will never come within scarring distance of my face again, I'll probably give it to my wife for her birthday to use on her legs.
          In some ways, though, the best deal of all was the cheese slicer. It's one of those high tech ones with a wire instead of a blade. I tried to dicker with the lady who was selling it, I figured I could beat her down by 10 per cent, at least, because the wire was a little bent but she stood firm. She pointed out it was only ten cents anyway and why was I wasting her time trying to chisel her out of a penny, but I figure that you never know, you know.
          When I lugged all my booty into the house to show it all off to my wife, I must say, she was decidedly underwhelmed. She took the $17.10 I had spent and added in the gas for the car, the lunch I bought and a couple other minor expenditures and figured out I had actually spent about fifty bucks for all my treasures.
          Mind you, I didn't tell her about the electric razor. I wouldn't want to spoil her birthday surprise.

Ideas from the Think Tank

          Last week saw the end of the G8 and G20 meetings in the latest international G spot, Toronto, with the expected damage to public property and finger pointing at who is to blame for the mess. I think the buck has to stop with whoever decided to have a major terrorism target party in an enormous monstrosity of a city complete with plate glass windows. But the burning question remains - if having it in a major metropolitan area is stupid, irresponsible and unduly expensive, then where does it make sense to have it? To help answer that question, I contacted researchers at the Loco World Group International Issue Think Tank, also known as Jeff’s Bar where solving the world’s problems over a refreshing beverage is a popular pastime. Here are the alternatives that the Think Tank experts arrived at, complete with pluses and minuses of each choice. They are ranked in descending order.
Choice Number 6: Tuktoyktuk, Northwest Territory
+ Not as many buildings for rioters to damage.
+ Not as many rioters.
- Not as many anything.
+ Cuts down on the pesky streakers if held in winter.
+ Paul McCartney’s busy on the other side of the country trying to stop the seal hunt.
- Limos look stupid with a snowmobile escort.
- Polar bears make off with the guys in the back of the photo op.
Choice Number 5: Foam Lake, Saskatchewan
+ At least you’re not in Tuktoyaktuk.
+ You can see protestors coming from miles away.
- Protestors can see you from miles away.
- The store closes at six p.m., even on Friday nights.
+ It already has a lake. You don’t have to spend 300 million dollars to build one.
+ Delegates could tour Super Dave Osborne’s sealskin binding factory.
+ Cheap tax-free smokes at nearby native reserves.
+ Nothing much else ever happens in Foam Lake, Saskatchewan.
Choice Number 4: In the middle of the Atlantic
+ No buildings to damage.
- The golf course has too much water.
- Extremely expensive to do pre-summit cleanup of entire ocean.
+ No homeless people to displace and then catch flak for from bleeding hearts.
+ NATO helicopter gunships can pick off Greenpeace activists claiming they thought they were Somali pirates blown off course.
+ It isn’t Foam Lake, Saskatchewan.
Choice Number 3: Millet, Alberta
+ They could really use a 300-million-dollar  lake.
+ Close to Wetaskiwin’s Auto Mile for convenient delegate car shopping.
- Hostile press.
-  Not much loot for looters locally, although there is decent pillaging in Edmonton a mere 40 kilometres north.
+  Easy to spell.
+  Hard for protestors and terrorists to find on a map.
-  Hard for ANYONE to find on a map.
Choice Number 2: Saint John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador
- Takes way too long to type.
+ Nice oceanfront location to make it easy to catch crabs.
+ And lobsters.
+ Locals can’t complain to the international press because they wouldn’t understand them.
+ Newfoundlanders are well known for their hospitality, friendliness and screech.
-  Half the delegates will get their travel bookings screwed up and end up in Saint John, New Brunswick.
- Premier Danny Williams will have to be on national TV again.
- Paul McCartney will show up.
Choice Number 1: Teleconferencing
+ No security issues since you’re not creating a target for terrorists by having all the G20 leaders in one place at one time. The biggest threat is “technical difficulties”.
+ If they want to play golf together, the world leaders could all just buy a Wii each and play online.
+ They can photo shop the photo op.
+ The cost to put on the summit would be about the same as the value of the decisions rendered.
+ News agencies could focus on the issues and not the activities of extremists which are always so much more interesting and newsworthy than the actual summit.
+ The almost-500 dollars spent by the Canadian Government for every man, woman and child in the country could have been put to so much better use... like returned to our personal bank accounts.
+ Saves so much money, nations could fund the promises they make at the meetings.
           So the verdict is in. Let’s tell the world leaders to stay home and go “tweet” themselves. Twitter is so aptly named for a world summit, don’t you think?