It's Not Over Until The Fat Filly Farts

By Shannon McKinnon

Shannon builds her humorous stories around a lifetime spent living on the land in northern Canada. She writes about moose, mice and mayhem, marriage, motherhood, the Good Life and so much more.

Shannon’s humor column “Slice of Life” appeared weekly in several community newspapers from 1991 to 2013. This book is a compilation of over 50 favorite columns gleaned from over 20 years of writing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shannon McKinnon
• Release date: Feb 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310734298

Shannon McKinnon

Shannon McKinnon wrote her weekly newspaper column “Slice of Life” from 1991 to 2013. Her work appeared in The Dawson Creek Daily News, The Fort Nelson News, The Grande Prairie Herald Tribune, The Northerner in Fort St. John, The Ottawa Citizen, The Prince Rupert Daily News,The Red Deer Advocate, The Tumbler Ridge News and The Williams Lake Tribune.Her column “That’s Funny” ran for a dozen years in The Western Producer. She is a regular contributor to Gardens West and Gardens Central magazine.Shannon lives northwest of Dawson Creek, BC in the Peace River Country - only a few kilometres from where she was raised. She is married to her high school sweetheart Darcy. They have two grown sons.

Book preview

I am presently embroiled in the battle of the squirrels. Don't get me wrong, I like squirrels. Their furry, frolicking, antics are always amusing to watch   when I'm the only one on the warm side of the window. When both of us are on the warm side it's far less amusing.

Our house is made out of logs and I think this is where the squirrel has become confused. The squirrel probably thinks we are living inside of a tree - a big square tree. But our house is well built. There are no squirrel sized cracks between the logs or anything like that. It's a log house, not a log fence. And this is the puzzling part. How is the squirrel getting in? When they gain access to a granary they leave a substantial hole as evidence of their entry. We can find so such hole in our home.

Perhaps we have a super squirrel. Maybe there was an event similar to the one that occurred in Smallville, only it affected the squirrels instead of the people. Now we have a squirrel that is capable of passing through walls like the invisible man or something. Only – regrettably - the squirrel is not invisible.

The most disconcerting moment of the entire ordeal happened yesterday. I was sorting laundry when the squirrel   perhaps excited by the fact I was contemplating throwing a lone white shirt in with the coloureds   started chattering at me from his perch on the shelf above the coat hooks. Since I had thought I was alone in the laundry room, I began to chatter back. Only it sounded more like screaming.

After we had tired of chattering at each other, I decide it would be best if the squirrel went back where it belonged. I opened the door (the laundry room is also our porch) and invited the squirrel to leave. The squirrel merely smirked at the suggestion and settled down on the shelf. That's when I got a brilliant idea.

Taking my willow walking stick down from its hook, I poked at the squirrel in an encouraging manner. Now imagine my horror when instead of scurrying out the open door the squirrel ran up the stick. The stick that I was holding. I could smell the nuts on his breath, before the paralysis left my arms allowing me to fling the squirrel and stick in the general direction of the open door.

And that's when things started to get exciting. Alerted by the open door and all the chatter our two dogs decided to drop in for dog biscuits and tea. And by dog biscuits and tea, I mean squirrel.

As badly as I wanted the squirrel to stop coming inside our house, I had no wish for it to end up a doggy hors d’oeuvre. On this the squirrel and I finally had a meeting of the minds. The dogs were harder to convince. Soon the four of us were whirling around the porch like a couple pairs of mismatched shoes in the spin cycle. When the fur finally settled I found myself on the wrong side of the door with the dogs, while the squirrel let out a victory chatter from deep inside the house.

Dejected, I sat down on the front steps and hoped that either the squirrel would find its way out or that it knew how to add fabric softener to the rinse cycle.

Silence is Golden…Until it Honks

It says right here, I told Darcy, waving about a magazine. That developing outside interests is good for a marriage. It stimulates conversation by giving the couple something new to talk about and makes each other appear more interesting.

Are you saying I'm not interesting? Darcy asked while switching channels in a valiant effort to track two sporting events at once.

It's just we always do the same old stuff. I read. You watch TV. It might be good to try something new.

Well...I have been thinking of watching more golf. Darcy said looking worried as he tried to figure out how to work a third channel into the commercial slot.

What new dialogue is possibly going to come from you watching golf, as well as hockey and baseball?

We're having new dialogue about it right now.

I want adventuresome dialogue. Dialogue that goes beyond how who just scored or that your team’s goalie is out with a knee injury.

The Canuck’s goalie is out with a knee injury? Darcy shouted. Where did you hear that?

I didn't. I was simply generalizing.

Well don't. Especially about, he dropped his voice to a whisper, the goalie.

Mountain climbing! I shouted.

What?

You take up mountain climbing and I'll take up hang gliding. Picture it! You'll return all windblown, tanned and rugged. And one afternoon I will launch myself off the very cliff that you're climbing and we'll wave at each other. Wouldn't that be something?

It certainly would. Darcy agreed.

Here's to outside interests, I said, lifting my teacup so Darcy could clink his remote control against it.

Within the week I had signed up for a pottery class and Darcy had bought a baritone on eBay.

I always wanted my very own baritone, Darcy said, stroking the glossy gold instrument. When I was in band my family couldn't afford to buy a baritone, so I had to borrow one from the school.

He lifted the baritone to his lips and began to honk. This was certainly new dialogue.

What happened to mountain climbing? I yelled. He couldn't hear me. No one could. I shoved a dish towel into the end of the baritone and asked once again, What about mountain climbing?

That was your idea, Darcy reminded me, pulling out the dish towel. Speaking of which, is that a hang gliding lesson receipt on the table?

I looked down at the pottery lesson pamphlet. Not exactly. I...I forgot I was afraid of heights.

Within a week the pottery instructor was wishing I had a fear of clay and I was wishing Darcy had a fear of gold shiny instruments that honked. Reading was impossible.

Is there a hockey game on tonight? There must some sort of game on. How about basketball? Curling? Wrestling? Weren't you going to take up watching golf?

But it was no use. The man couldn't hear me over all his honking new dialogue.

How to Get a Frying Pan Washed in 30 Seconds…Or Less

What's this thing? asked my son, pulling a flat grooved square of black metal from the back of the cupboard. He was on a quest for a frying pan after discovering to his horror that his favourite pan was beyond saving. In other words, it was in the sink and had yet to be resurrected, clean and shining, to its place in the cupboard. The kid cooks, but he doesn't clean.

It took me a few seconds to figure out what the flat black object in his hand was, but the light slowly dawned; the thaw master. Just one of many time saving gadgets I have accumulated over the years. The back of my cupboards are littered with juicers, pasta makers, egg yolk separators, radish carvers, chocolate melters, nut choppers, and what could very well be the stupidest purchase of them all; the thaw master.

Darcy and I had watched the thaw master commercial back in the early nineties, which showed how the metal tray reduced an ice cube to water in a matter of seconds. Mouths agape, we had joined hands, fell to our knees, and solemnly vowed to procure one at the first available opportunity. This turned out to be a month later at the local trade show. For a thrifty $25.95   a whopping savings of 10 bucks off shipping and handling costs   we smugly walked away with what we believed was the cheapest little thaw master in the Peace River Country.

In a great state of excitement we rushed home and melted ice cubes until our eyes crossed. The next day we invited the neighbourhood over for a thaw master ice cube melting party. It was great. Exactly three days later these little metal trays (boxed under a wide assortment of names, but all featuring the famous ice cube test) showed up in every store in town for $14.95.

I continued to thaw our hamburger and steaks in the fridge over night like I always had. As for the ice cubes, it took us two weeks before we looked up at each other and asked, What exactly do we need melted ice cubes for? Neither of us knew. The thaw master just kind of fizzled off into the dark recesses of the cupboard after that.

So what does it do? asked my son.

This baby can melt an ice cube in 30 seconds flat. It's amazing. You want to see?

We own a piece of metal for melting ice cubes?

In 30 seconds or your money cheerfully refunded!

Do you think I could fry an egg on it?

I don't know why you avoid washing dishes. It doesn't take any time at all. In fact, I bet I can wash your frying pan in the time it takes this baby to melt an ice cube.

Okay, he said, starting to look excited.

Teenagers are like that. They act all tough and cool, but when it comes down to it, they are still little kids at heart.

While my son watched an ice cube melt before his very eyes, I wildly scrubbed the frying pan, soap suds flying in my wake, before triumphantly stepping away from the sink, calf roper style, just as the last of the ice cube turned into a small puddle.

Impressed? I asked him.

Totally, he said, taking the frying pan and heading for the stove.

An hour later his older brother wandered into the kitchen noted the dirty frying pan in the sink with horror and then examined the thaw master sitting on the island. What's this? I heard him ask his brother.

I forget what it's called, but it's pretty cool. You put an ice cube on it and Mom washes the frying pan.

Mr. Dressup

I loved Mr. Dressup. As a child, I was desperate for a red tickle trunk decorated with flowers and a counter top with clever shelves underneath from which I could magically produce felt markers, tape, glue and colored paper. Mr. Dressup rocked my world.

I admit, as I got older, things started to bother me. Like how come whatever costume he wanted was always at the top of the tickle trunk? And what was his relationship with Casey anyhow? Casey never called him Dad Dressup or Uncle Dressup; always Mr. Dressup. Was he adopted? Abandoned at birth and left in a basket on Mr. Dressup's front steps? And why was it Mr. Dressup made Casey reside in a tree house with his dog, while Mr. Dressup got to live in the main house all by himself? Obviously there was enough room for Casey, but Mr. Dressup refused to let him do more than visit.

And then there was Finnegan.

If the dog was really capable of talking, even if only in whispers, why weren't any of the visitors at Mr. Dressup’s appropriately astonished? Why did they act like everyone's dog talked? And why was it that we could hear Casey talk but his lips never moved, but we could see Finnegan’s mouth move but never hear him talk?

"Because they're puppets. It's a show. A children’s show. Mr. Dressup is a fictional man.