As the great British spy guy, celebrated philanderer and definitely real person James Bond would say if he was the author of this column, "My name is Chaff...The Chaff. I will have a Chaff-ka Chaff-tini. Chaff-ken not Chaff-ed."
Last week, as Scott and I frantically laid out the Barn Dance Campout and Jamboree special section (alright, not frantically, but not exactly calmly either), I was reminded of the idea of best laid plans.
It was stunning so see by the special edition about the Barn Dance Jamboree/Campout in last week's Citizen that the event is the 25th anniversary of the event. How time flies!
For this week's plunge into paranoid paronomasia, The Chaff is conducting its first-ever in-depth interview. That's right, it's time for a Chaffterview! Who better as the first subject of our unflinching gaze than quixotic Quebec-born Qu'omedian...
Living in the country, as I do, brings constant reminders of the changing of the seasons. Lately there are regular indications that it's planting season, whether it's neighbours travelling down the road with equipment or the fields...
As part of a continuing, self-indulgent, self-centred (and all the other self-hyphenated terms) series, I am here again to write something self-serving on my 41st birthday - May 19, 2023.
It was a very sad entry in the death register of 1889 for Hullett Township that provided the idea for this column. Name: unknown; Age: unknown; Cause of death: unknown; Religion: unknown.
Greetings loyal Chaff Gang! If you perk up your ears and listen closely, you might hear the faint barks of Chaff hounds in the distance, desperately craving the one thing they can't live without: (whispers) The Chaff... The Chaff... The Chaff.
In recent years, much has been made about the idea that Canadian media is underwritten by the federal government. This ignorant talking point shows up often in comment sections as a strawman for those opposed to media, government and spelling.
The World Health Organization declared the end to COVID-19 global health emergency last week, a decision that many Canadians had already made on their own.
Jess will be quite chuffed (not to be confused with being chaffed, chiffed or chorfed - that's Scott's department) that she's given me fodder for two columns in a row.
As David Bowie once sang, "Ch-ch-ch-ch-The Chaff. Time may Chaff me. But I can't Chaff time." Welcome
back to The Chaff for another full, never half, double serving of The Chaff...
May 8 marks the official end of the Second World War in Europe, back in 1945, longer ago than anyone less than 78 years old was born, and therefore the reality of that war needs to be restated for the generations of Canadians today.
Over the weekend, Jess asked me if I'd read an article she sent me from The New York Times Magazine. I hadn't, I told her. She and I are on different schedules these days, though no less occupied.
Greetings, Chafflings, Chaffers and Chafflettes! It is time again to separate the wheat from the laughs, in the ever-spinning downward spiral of introspection that is our weekly foray into the untold depths of the trenches of human humour.
Last month, two immigrant families drowned in the St. Lawrence River trying the cross the border into the U.S. at the Akwesasne reserve near Montreal.
What are about two metres (six feet) tall, made of copper or aluminum and stand at attention, like soldiers on guard, at regular intervals along the peak of a roof? The answer is: lightning rods.