Opportunity Knox: Twenty Years of Award-Losing Humour Writing

By Jack Knox

Longlisted, 2018 Leacock Medal for Humour

A hilarious collection of Jack Knox's best-loved humour columns.

In this side-splitting follow-up to the bestseller Hard Knox: Musings from the Edge of Canada, Jack Knox presents his best writing, marking his twenty-year anniversary as a humour columnist at the Victoria Times Colonist, the newspaper that made him a household name. Revisiting his most—and least!—popular columns, Knox weighs the potential benefits of a marijuana-like drug that reduces anxiety in rats; reports on the “Bush Boys,” a pair of brothers who emerged from the forest near Vernon with a dubious story about being raised in the wilderness (they were actually from suburban California); and muses over fictional characters such as Barbie, Ken, Harry Potter, and Archie growing up and facing the grim realities of life. He also includes a hilarious collection of “nastygrams” (a.k.a. hate mail) that he’s received over the past two decades. Opportunity Knox goes to show that humour comes when you least expect it. From politics to weather, sports to entertainment, Knox finds the bizarre in everyday life and the ordinary in what should by all accounts be bizarre.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heritage House
• Release date: Oct 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781772032093

Jack Knox

Jack Knox is the author of three bestselling books, Hard Knox: Musings from the Edge of Canada and Opportunity Knox: Twenty Years of Award-Losing Humour Writing (both long-listed for the Leacock Medal for Humour), and On the Rocks with Jack Knox: Islanders I Will Never Forget. All of his books are based on his popular column at the Victoria Times Colonist, where he has worked for more than twenty-five years. In his spare time, Knox performs in a rock ’n’ roll band with members of his Tour de Rock cycling team.

Book preview

To Molly

Contents

Introduction

April 2013: Careering Toward Disaster

Millennial Misunderstandings

January 2000: Right-Sizing the Family

February 2000: Homer Simpson, Without the Charm

March 2001: The Ken Doll At Forty

March 2009: Barbie Turns Fifty

December 2005: Toying With the Past

May 2009: Archie Gets Married

June 2001: Failed by Technology

Blond Bombshelter

November 2001: The Regina Monologues

December 2001: The Dead Guy’s Bed

December 2002: Counter Culture

January 2002: In Hospital for the Holidays

January 2002: Due to a typographical error . . .

I Shoulda Stayed the Night

Bush Boy

June 2004: Barking Dog

October 2005: The Rat Race

Cat-Astrophe

June 2011: The Buck Stops Here

March 2014: The Emutable Truth

October 2003: Abiding Boris

February 2004: Spotless

August 2005: Doing the Right Thing

Appraising An Old Family Relic

Cushioning The Blow

July 2016: F-Bombs Away

George Dubya’s Hurricane Di’ry

October 2006: Ducking the Twinkie Tax

October 2006: Christoween

December 2005: The Christmas Letter

December 2016: Merry Bleepmas

December 2016: Snow in victoria? Must be flake news

A Snowmageddon Diary

August 2013: An Imperfectly Perfect Summer

September 2006: In Defence of Dullness

February 2007: Shaken and Stirred

March 2007: It’s A Concert, Not A Singalong

A Pebble On The Tour De Rock

February 2008: My Kennedy Curse

February 2008: They Had Me at Amen

May 2008: The Silence of the Worms

October 2008: The Good Old Days

February 2009: Saving the Environment

November 2010: Saving the Economy

January 2009: Elephants Can’t Jump

February 2009: Obama. O canada. Oh, for heaven’s sake

April 2009: Hooked on Earworms

May 2009: Plantin’ Time

September 2009: Poor old apostrophe’

July 2010: Of Apologies and Damage Control

February 2010: A Winter Olympics Primer

August 2016: A Summer Olympics Primer

August 2004: Silver Lining

January 2011: Blue Monday

May 2011: Canucks Fever

What A (Non-Laughing) Riot

October 2012: A Life on Hold

November 2012: Bathed By Moonlight

January 2013: Warning: This Ad Could Cause Anxiety

February 2013: The Penny Drops

August 2013: Illicit Thrills

May 2014: A Temporary Solution on Mother’s Day

May 2009: The Parable of the Polident

November 1998: The Drawer Where Dad Kept his War

June 2014: Grad Advice

March 2015: Salt spring or saltspring?

April 2015: Tweet. Retreat. Delete.

April 2015: Your Tax Return, Explained

February 2016: Together, We Can Save The Bobs

May 2016: Hip, Hip, Hooray

September 2016: Royal Bumps

It’s Me, Donald Trump

February 2017: Flying Into a Rage

Diary of a Lone Wolf

Nasty Grams

Acknowledgements

INTRODUCTION

Most of what I write isn’t funny. Or, to be precise, most isn’t meant to be funny.

I’m a serious journalist, damn it; have been for forty years. Politics. Crime. Angry people with purple faces. Except somewhere along the line—twenty years ago, to be precise—I wandered off that road and into the ditch. One day in late 1997—a time when I held a particularly purple-faced job at my newspaper, the Victoria Times Colonist—I wrote a humour column just for fun.

It was well received, so I wrote another, then another, until I was doing so weekly. Then in 2000 I became a full-time columnist, banging out pieces that often incorporated humour.

Sometimes humour—satire—is a great way to hammer home a point about a serious topic, to demonstrate the absurdity of things. At other times, all you want to do is make people laugh. That’s what this book is: twenty years of trying to bring a smile to people’s faces. It’s a Best of collection of humour columns (or at least a Didn’t Suck as Much as the Others collection).

Many of the pieces are set on Vancouver Island, but you don’t need to be a West Coaster to get the humour. Much of it is about the everyday stuff that’s common to most of us, written by someone who is as common as bird crap on a windshield. (The promotional material for my last book described me as a consummate everyman, which I quite liked, though I think that was really just a polite way of calling me Homer Simpson.)

Sometimes I tweaked old columns here and there to make them a little more relevant. So if you think it odd that a piece written in 2005 takes a poke at Donald Trump, well, get over it. I’m not going to pass up a chance to take a cheap shot at Trump, even if it involves time travelling.

Some of the pieces wander into the world of news but others are slice-of-life personal, about topics that a Serious Journalist would shun as though they were coated in Ebola: the death of my dog, or the death of my couch, or the time my parents bought me a dead guy’s bed.

Buck the urban deer shows up in this book, as he does frequently in the newspaper. Victoria has a love/hate relationship with deer. They’re like that one friend who everyone has, the one you want to strangle and hug at the same time. The shifty one who always has something shady going on, who shows up unannounced, eats all your food, takes your car without asking and brings it back reeking of weed. That’s why Buck is drawn the way he is, both dissolute and endearing (endeering?).

Buck was, I think, influenced by The Far Side, in which cartoonist Gary Larson often gave animals human characteristics. In choosing the columns for this book, I was surprised by the frequency with which I do the same with inanimate objects and fictitious characters: the Barbie doll, Tickle Me Elmo, Archie from the comic books. You’ll find pieces where the economy and environment are brought to life as hospital patients, and another where the apostrophe becomes a street drunk.

It turns out I also write about animals a lot, dogs in particular. I like dogs and they like me, which I take as a point of pride.

My wife—my poor, long-suffering wife—appears throughout, though in truth the version of her that appears on these pages is fiction, a literary device, the Marge to my Homer. My real wife doesn’t really plunk herself down in the front yard and drink liquor from the bottle. Not often, anyway.

My wife (the real one) was actually with me last winter, shortly after the publication of my previous book, when the nicest thing happened. We were walking down the Rithet’s Bog trail one chilly afternoon when a stranger stopped us: "I read Hard Knox while having chemotherapy this morning, he said. Laughed my butt off." Forget the Leacock Medal, or the National Newspaper Award; his comment was the best reward I could have had. I hope this book brings the same reaction. I hope it makes you smile.

April 2013

CAREERING TOWARD DISASTER

Went to the school career day this week.

Thought I was there to talk about journalism, but it turned out they just wanted to use me as a bad example, the equivalent of one of those Scared Straight programs where muscle-bound prison inmates with shaved heads and swastikas on their teeth warn wide-eyed teens of the consequences of straying down the wrong path.

Don’t let this happen to you, a teacher barked through a megaphone, pointing a cautionary finger at me as students streamed past.

Some of the kids flinched, then scurried away, muttering, Must study harder, must study harder. A few of the braver boys edged close, trying to look nonchalant, but you could see their Adam’s apples bobbing like fishing floats. A couple of the girls fled, sobbing. It’s hideous, gasped one—an indelicate sentiment to voice aloud, but undoubtedly reflective of the general reaction.

For this is the ugly truth: of the two hundred jobs rated in a just-released analysis of the best jobs in North America, newspaper journalist ranks dead last, right after lumberjack and, I believe, grave robber.

No, journalism doesn’t score well on the careercast.com Jobs Rated index, which measures careers in terms of stress, working environment, physical demands, income, and hiring outlook.

Dunno what they didn’t like about reporting. Must have been all that heavy lifting of one-pint weights.

The best job? Actuary. An actuary is someone who calculates probabilities for the insurance industry and other financial institutions. Super. At a time in life when kids should be learning to take chances, we point them to a career dedicated to diminishing risk.

In truth, should a teen be pushed toward any particular career? It rankles to see young people being stuffed into a funnel, made to feel they must choose a path before they’ve even had a chance to look at a map. Making them choose one option at age eighteen is like saying, Eat whatever you want, as long as it’s a hamburger.

For the record, here’s the full Jobs Rated Top Ten: actuary, biomedical engineer, software engineer, audiologist, financial planner, dental hygienist, occupational therapist, optometrist, physical therapist, computer systems analyst.

To which I reply: professional lawnmower racer, gigolo, ninja, pope, rock star, spy, art forger, Starfleet captain, Bill Gates, Tina Fey.

Or you could be a coconut safety engineer, the title given to the employee at the Virgin Islands’ Ritz-Carlton hotel whose job is to ensure guests don’t get bonked on the noggin as they sleep. Or a bite man who rolls up his sleeve, sticks out his arm, and waits to see if mosquitoes bite him often enough to warrant spraying with insecticide. England’s Thorpe Park amusement park employs a vomit collector who, with mop and bucket, patrols under what is billed as the world’s most terrifying rollercoaster. Dare to dream, kids, dare to dream.

Here’s the best advice I ever got from my dad: Never get trapped in a job you don’t like.

Smart man, my dad. After getting out of the army and working for the post office for 10,000 years, he took early retirement and became a priest. (Good choice. When was the last time you ever heard of a crazed gunman going Anglican on his co-workers?)

Others make improbable shifts, too. At the peak of his basketball fame, Michael Jordan tried minor-league baseball. The CEO of H&R Block quit to become a $15,000-a-year high school math teacher. Les Leyne once wrote of a Victoria doctor who jumped to stand-up comedy.

Given another chance, here’s what I would say on Career Day: Life is to be enjoyed, not endured. Seek fulfillment, not fortune. Follow your passion. Avoid heavy lifting.

Security is great, but so is adventure. I have a nephew who spent a few years swashbuckling around Africa. Last night I crawled under the barbed wire to visit the pygmy headman, he would write. I watched angry baboons chase French soldiers out of their camp.

To which I would reply: Last night I crawled back to the office after covering a city council meeting. I watched angry baboons defeat a rezoning application. He will always have Africa. I’ll always have another council meeting.

This thought prompted me to go to my boss: My job sucks. Jobs Rated says so. You should give me a raise.

He pointed out that a) no, b) I should try being a subsistence farmer in drought-stricken Africa, and c) for a guy whose job sucks, I get to do a lot of fun stuff. This is true.

I have been tasered (voluntarily), been blasted with blowhole spray by Luna the whale (it tasted like fish), and interviewed a porn star in the nude (her, not me). Barack Obama phoned me four days before he was elected president. I have hidden from gunfire. I have met prime ministers and premiers, and sat down with a murderer in his cell (I liked the murderer).

I get to poke my nose in places it doesn’t belong. I get to try to change the world (or at least Victoria). Sometimes people come up to me and say, Thanks, I needed to laugh today. That feels good, even if they’re just talking about the typos.

Don’t tell me this job is dead last.

Remember the y2k (or Year 2000) bug? As the new millenniuminum dawned, people feared (rightly) that they couldn’t spell it and (wrongly) that the world’s computers, confused by the date change, would crash, throwing us into the Dark Ages.

MILLENNIAL MISUNDERSTANDINGS

Dear MasterCard,

I am writing in regard to your bill of today, Jan. 3, 2000. I believe there has been a misunderstanding.

That is, I did not understand that there would be a Jan. 3, 2000.

In fact, I was led to understand that there would be a rather large abyss where your offices are located, the result of Y2K-induced Armageddon. Having reached such a conclusion, I made some purchases that could perhaps now, in the light of an unexpectedly new day, be best described as improvident.

In particular, may I refer you to the gas-powered generator, deer rifle, .303-calibre ammunition, six gross of canned sardines, and the Adolf and Eva Backyard Bunker Kit charged to my account last week. Please be assured that these I shall return unused.

Unfortunately, I will not be able to bring back the forty-pounder of Scotch or the sixty-inch television set, which sustained a certain amount of damage on the morning of Jan. 1 when the CBC made it clear that Apocalypse Now would actually be Apocalypse Some Time in the Distant Future. Oh yes, I will also be unable to return one clip of .303 ammunition.

It has also been brought to my attention that someone using my credit card was seen waving it in the air in the Empress Hotel’s Bengal Room on New Year’s Eve, shouting, It’s the end of the world, baby, and it’s all on me! Please cancel any associated expenses incurred in my name, and upgrade your security features so that such an abuse may never happen again.

Dear Canada Revenue Agency,

Certain errors were contained in the letter I sent you entitled I got away with it and you can’t touch me now, you blood-sucking leeches.

First, I should emphasize that I really do have a tax-deductible dependent named Chester Field. He’s a plucky child, undaunted by the horrible ailment that necessitated the $13,451 in declared medical expenses, which I may have inadvertently referred to as being phonier than Arnold Schwarzenegger’s acting.

Second, I fear my ambiguous statement suggesting your auditors are "duller than Front Page Challenge with the naughty bits taken out" might be misinterpreted. Please accept my humble apologies and the accompanying cheque.

Dear Arnold Schwarzenegger,

It has come to my attention that someone using my telephone spent much of the night before New Year’s making harassing calls to your home. Not only did said caller refer to your acting ability as phonier than my tax return, but he also invited you to Victoria so he could kick your steroid-enhanced butt all the way back to Yodelsburg, Austria.

Please be assured that all thirty-seven of these calls were made by a deranged intruder. I don’t agree with him, think you are a fine thespian (Don’t get angry, Arnie, it just means actor), and do not think it wise that we bet our womenfolk on the outcome of a fight between us.

My Darling,

Please let me back in the house. I swear I didn’t mean those things I said—it was the Scotch and sardines talking.

I really would have made room for you in the bunker had it been necessary. Heck, those were just warning shots; it’s not like I was actually aiming the deer rifle.

PS. If a guy called Arnold comes to the door, tell him he wins the bet.

Dear Conrad Black,

Please disregard any previous correspondence you may have received from this desk. Since my key still worked when I entered the newspaper office this morning, I shall assume you haven’t read it yet, and am happy to free you from the burden of so doing.

Should you read it, I should advise you that Y2K-associated transmission troubles may have garbled my email en route to your office. In particular, I refer to the passage relating to your desire for a peerage, the one that reads, Lord Conrad? Let’s hope that dog has been laid to rest by Jean Chrétien until the next millennium. It should have said, Lord, Conrad, let’s hope that dog has been laid, to rest by Jean Chrétien until the next millennium.

January 2000

RIGHT-SIZING THE FAMILY

Good morning, family.

Good morning, Father.

Family, I have an announcement. As you may have read, surveys show Canadians are getting more and more stressed as they try to balance the needs of home with those of the workplace. There simply isn’t enough time to attend to both. I have decided to put an end to this treadmill, simplifying my life to allow me to spend more time—

Here at home?

At the office. From now on, this family will be run on business principles.

Huh?

First, you may have noticed the absence of young Seth. I regret to announce Seth, as the junior member of the family—or FamCo, as we now call it—has been laid off. I wish to stress that his departure is in no way performance related, and we wish him the best of luck in all his future endeavours.

What!

On a happier note, I am pleased to announce that Johnny, the eldest, is being offered a buyout and an opportunity to explore new fields.

Um, Dad, I’m only sixteen . . .

Yes, Johnny, but rest assured we will continue to pay your health premiums for three months. However, early-retirement penalties mean your education fund will, of course, revert to FamCo. Off you go, Johnny! Godspeed!

"Daddy, if Johnny’s gone, who will drive me to Brownies? Who’ll