Since the Canadian postal strike knocked Nestlings Press and countless other businesses for a loop in December, the gnomes are still waiting for custom to resume. There is an HST holiday for books, but given that Canada’s postal rates have just skyrocketed, any money collected as a tax (our intractable online system) will be put instead toward postage – as long as those ordering books before Feb. 15/ 2025 agree. (So far they kindly have.) Otherwise, we could tape a loonie to each requested book as a refund.

Meanwhile, Christmas/holiday cards that were sent out before the strike are only now trickling in, which makes it difficult for the recipients to return the favour. Nestlings Press has finessed this impasse by sending out Groundhog Day cards instead, celebrating the rodent who sees or doesn’t see his shadow on Feb. 2. (The groundhog was a major player in the Nestlings comic strip, so it’s heartening to witness his return.)

The trouble is, there are precious few Groundhog Day carols. Therefore we have written a verse of our own. Feel free to include it in any belated cards you send out.

Groundhog Day, as holidays go,

Has somewhat less of a holiday glow.

No Christmas gifts, no Easter eggs,

Just one small rodent on four legs.                                                     

A group of people get together

In hopes he will predict the weather.

His shadow’s there, his shadow’s not,

And that is all the groundhog’s got.

He’s sometimes right, he’s sometimes wrong,

In guessing winter’s short or long.

He may catch pundits unawares.

It’s all a stunt. Nobody cares.

But still, important folks have reckoned

It’s worth observing Feb the Second.

So too-ra-loo and hip hooray.

Please raise a toast to Groundhog Day.

Things are ticking along nicely at Nestlings Press. No sooner had we released Imaginary Pets of Famous People (humorous verses with caricatures by Anthony Jenkins, 128 pages) than we published Rabelais Rousers, a trove of illustrations created by French artist Albert Robida in the late 1800s for François Rabelais’s sixteenth-century masterpiece Gargantua and Pantagruel. (Fun fact: Rabelais used the synonym “the beast with two backs” for sexual intercourse more than a century before Shakespeare used it in Othello.) Then Anthony Jenkins came up with another supply of caricatures, and we dove into More Imaginary Pets of Famous People (also 128 pages).

Next up is a volume planned for the new year: Illustrating Aesop, a sequel of sorts to Illustrating Brer Rabbit, which will take the best work by fifteen or twenty classic illustrators of Aesop’s fables and show the many ways in which those fables can be interpreted visually.

But I, the publisher, have run into a roadblock: the mystery of Simonne Baudoin.

You may remember the puzzle of Bold, the pen name of someone who illustrated two or three Walter de la Mare books in the 1920s. Nobody knows who Bold was – whether they were a he or a she, when they were born, when they died. There is speculation that de la Mare contracted with an artist elsewhere in Europe and never met the fellow, but that remains conjecture.

Well, Simonne (sometimes spelled Simone) Baudoin is a similar mystery. Here is what is known: She illustrated many picture books in the 1950s, with a lovely distinctive watercolour style. She worked mainly for Casterman, a French publisher still in business today. She appears to have been Belgian. And, um, that’s it. Nobody knows when she was born or, if she has died, when she died.

I have written to Casterman, but have not yet received a reply. I slogged through the Internet and found only a letter or two from Casterman to Baudoin about how much they might pay and how many paintings they might need. Someone in France started a thread asking whether anyone knew anything about her, and many people wrote to say they loved her work and to share images, but there were no clues about the artist herself. Official Belgian sources were no help.

Baudoin’s books appeared in French. Some, including a series by Enid Blyton, had been translated from the English. Some, like her book illustrating La Fontaine’s fables, were translated into English. The La Fontaine book would be perfect for Illustrating Aesop (since Jean de La Fontaine elaborated in verse on many of Aesop’s fables), but I can’t use the material without permission. Baudoin may be out of copyright, but that would require knowing her death date – if she has died.

The veil of silence is perplexing. Was the name someone’s pseudonym? Is there a tragedy no one wants to discuss? Is/was she just a very private person? What led her to have a creative run in one decade and then, apparently, stop?

Stay tuned. If I find anything out, I will let you know in this space. And if you happen to know something, please use the contact link on the Nestlings Press home page to share the information.

High atop Nestlings Press headquarters, so close to the sun that you can reach out and light a candle with it, the elves and gnomes have been working overtime to create the latest Nestlings Press monograph. And what a delight it is: The Art of Peter Newell, 176 pages (40 of them in colour), $19.99 plus tax, and full of wonderful wash illustrations and cartoons. (See a couple of examples by clicking on the cover on the home page of nestlingspress.com.)

The overwhelming reaction of those who hear the title is “Peter who?”, but you wouldn’t have said that if you’d been around between 1890 and 1915. (Go back and check. I’ll wait.) Newell was famous. He illustrated Mark Twain, and Stephen Crane, and Frank Stockton, and Carolyn Wells. His cartoons in the back of the popular magazines of the day were sought after and quoted. He created dozens of full-page illustrations for Alice in Wonderland, Through the Looking-Glass and The Hunting of the Snark, not to mention Favorite Fairy Tales (sic U.S. spelling) and The Pursuit of the House-Boat, in which author John Kendrick Bangs imagined that Sherlock Holmes had arrived in Hades and was helping Confucius, Walter Raleigh and others to rescue a house-boat commandeered by pirates. Arthur Conan Doyle had killed off Holmes a few years earlier, so Bangs said, well, he’s dead, I guess I don’t need permission. Fortunately Conan Doyle enjoyed the book.

Newell created three “toy” or “trick” books that are still in print – The Hole Book (with a hole drilled through it, imagining the path of a bullet accidentally fired by a boy and destructive to goldfish bowls, bass drums and the like), The Rocket Book (same idea, but with fireworks) and The Slant Book, with left and right sides cut at an angle so, when you held the left side upright, you could follow a runaway baby carriage. Newell wrote the verses for each book and supplied a full-page painting on every second page.

Among the colour pages in The Art of Peter Newell are illustrations from Mr. Munchausen (Baron Munchausen telling tall tales from Hades) and Mother Goose’s Menagerie, all of which were lithographed in eight colours. The book’s cover is from Mr. Munchausen, and the two accompanying illustrations at www.nestlingspress.com are from Menagerie.

The book cherry-picks four verses of a poem from Nautical Lays of a Landsman (by Wallace Irwin, illustrated by Newell), but, since the Internet has space galore, I will paste the entire poem at the end of this note.

Meanwhile, the elves and gnomes, who have to carry our stock up and down thirty-seven flights of stairs and would love to see their load lightened, ask me to remind you that all the Nestlings Press books are available at https://nestlingspress.com. As ever, for reasons too complicated, annoying and ultimately boring to get into, we mail only to Canadian addresses.

THE RHYME OF THE CHIVALROUS SHARK

BY WALLACE IRWIN

Most chivalrous fish of the ocean,

To ladies forbearing and mild,

Though his record be dark, is the man-eating shark

Who will eat neither woman nor child.

He dines upon seamen and skippers,

And tourists his hunger assuage,

And a fresh cabin boy will inspire him with joy

If he’s past the maturity age.

A doctor, a lawyer, a preacher,

He’ll gobble one any fine day,

But the ladies, God bless ’em, he’ll only address ’em

Politely and go on his way.

I can readily cite you an instance

Where a lovely young lady of Breem,

Who was tender and sweet and delicious to eat,

Fell into the bay with a scream.

She struggled and flounced in the water

And signalled in vain for her bark,

And she’d surely been drowned if she hadn’t been found

By a chivalrous man-eating shark.

He bowed in a manner most polished,

Thus soothing her impulses wild;

“Don’t be frightened,” he said, “I’ve been properly bred

And will eat neither woman nor child.”

Then he proffered his fin and she took it—

Such a gallantry none can dispute—

While the passengers cheered as the vessel they neared

And a broadside was fired in salute.

And they soon stood alongside the vessel,

When a life-saving dinghy was lowered

With the pick of the crew, and her relatives, too,

And the mate and the skipper aboard.

So they took her aboard in a jiffy,

And the shark stood attention the while,

Then he raised on his flipper and ate up the skipper

And went on his way with a smile.

And this shows that the prince of the ocean,

To ladies forbearing and mild,

Though his record be dark, is the man-eating shark

Who will eat neither woman nor child.

Early in 2024, Nestlings Press will be unveiling a book entitled Imaginary Pets of Famous People — humorous verses with copious illustrations by Anthony Jenkins, one of the world’s best caricaturists.

Meanwhile, here is an animal poem of a different kind. I was asked to read something at the Toronto Arts & Letters Club’s festive lunch on Dec. 15 (2023), so I wrote the following, a takeoff on The Night Before Christmas. Here goes:

The Mouse Before Christmas

© 2023 Warren Clements

’Twas the night before Christmas

And all through the house,

Every creature was stirring

Because of a mouse.

He had eaten the turkey

And eaten the cheese

And hadn’t the manners

To say, If you please.

Mama in her kerchief,

Papa in his cap,

Went to room after room

Setting trap after trap.

The scratching and bustling

They heard in the wall

Gave signs that the mouse

Still had plenty of gall.

He’s eaten the popcorn,

I heard the folks say.

He’s eaten the candies

And even the tray.

Papa with his liquor,

Mama with her beer

Swore they heard a small snicker

From somewhere near here.

The traps were all set

With delectable treats

In hopes that the mouse,

In the course of his feats,

Would set a foot wrong

And wind up in their clutches.

If he weren’t polished off,

He’d at least be on crutches.

When what to their wondering ears did appear

But a curse of a sort it was quite rare to hear.

“Oh dash it, oh blast it,

O darn it, how vexing,

May Beelzebub bless them

With infinite hexing.”

Seems Santa had landed

All covered with soot

And stepped in a mouse trap

Which clung to his foot.

He reached for a table.

A trap was there too.

His gloves were in tatters.

His fingers were blue.

Extending a finger

But not by his nose,

He let the folks know

He considered them foes.

No presents for Mama,

And Papa gets zip.

They got none of the gifts

He had brought on his trip.

But he paused in the house

Ere he leapt out of sight –

And he gave the mouse a chunk of cheese, a jelly sandwich, a slice of pie and a block of peanut butter,

And he said to the mouse, Have a really good night.

The latest Nestlings Press project is A Nestlings Press Miscellany, looking back over the thirty-six (thirty-six!) NP books published to date. (The thirty-sixth, which combines Ambrose Bierce’s Devil’s Dictionary with illustrations from Art Young’s Inferno, is not yet on the website, but will be by September.)

Rather than repeat material from the earlier books, the Miscellany will offer material I didn’t know about, or didn’t have access to, when I was assembling the original books: for instance, illustrations by Mervyn Peake for Quentin Crisp’s limerick satire of British wartime bureaucracy. There are also wild diversions. The chapter on Thirty Thousand Pigs (the NP book about hilarious typos) offers a piece by Rockwell Kent on being mistaken for Norman Rockwell. The chapter on Treasures in the Antic (which had a few snippets from U.S. humorist Will Cuppy) includes the footnotes that Cuppy wrote for Garden Rubbish, a later book by Sellar and Yeatman, authors of 1066 and All That. Unlike that classic book, Garden Rubbish was barely readable — which Cuppy apparently realized only after accepting the assignment to provide footnotes for U.S. readers unfamiliar with British vocabulary, etc. Cuppy proceeded to write footnotes that have nothing — absolutely nothing — to do with the book. It’s surreal. How could I not include this in a miscellany?

Oh, and I’ve adapted the first three cantos of Dante’s Inferno into simple rhyming verse. It’s a good thing Dante is out of copyright. Herewith the first canto:

A Child’s Guide to Dante’s Inferno

While on my journey through this life

I wandered in a thick, dark wood.

I’d hopped from virtue straight to strife

And told myself, this can’t be good.

I reached a hill. The sun shone high,

But only on the upper half.

Below, a leopard caught my eye.

She didn’t seem inclined to laugh.

“A leopard caught your eye? Wouldn’t that hurt?”

“It’s a figurative expression.”

“What does ‘figurative’ mean?”

“It means it’s not literally true.”

“So you start off your story by telling a lie? That’s not reassuring.”

“Shush.”

And then a lion, tense and lean

And hungry caught my frightened gaze.

A she-wolf showed up, looking mean –

Not one of my more pleasant days.

I gave up trying to climb that hill,

Resigned to struggling through the dark,

When someone – something, if you will –

Whose aspect was a trifle stark

Appeared before me, tall and mute.

“Have pity on me, shade,” I cried.

“Are you a man? A ghost? A brute?

A fiend intent on homicide?”

“Please, make it a ghost. I love ghost stories.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Not man,” he answered, “any more.

Lombardy once I called my home

When gods were rotten to the core,

And later on I lived in Rome.

I was a poet, wrote of Troy –

But tell me, why did you decide

You wouldn’t climb that hill, my boy?

Its splendours cannot be denied.”

“You’re Virgil! Oh, my sainted days!

You are my master, and my muse,

Your borrowed style has won me praise,

Your template is the one I use.

You ask me why I’m turning back?

Behold that leopard in my path.

I rather think she might attack,

So please protect me from her wrath.”

“Who’s Virgil when he’s at home?”

“He was a poet who lived a long, long time ago and wrote in Latin. He died two decades before Christ was born, so he can’t get into Heaven.”

“That seems awfully unfair.”

 “And he wrote The Aeneid, in which a man named Aeneas visits the Underworld.”

“The underworld? So this is about gangsters?”

“Not the underworld. The Underworld.”

“You do realize capital letters don’t help much in an oral conversation, don’t you?”

“If you expect to leave this place,

You’ll have to find another way.

The more that beast stuffs in her face,

The hungrier she’s bound to stay

Until the Greyhound comes again

And does that thing he does so well.

He’ll make her perish in her pain

And drive the creature back to Hell.

For now it’s best to follow me

And treat me as a faithful guide.

Infernal regions you will see

And horrid cries from those who’ve died.”

“Okay, you lost me at Greyhound.”

“All will become clear.”

“Seriously? Like that time you tried to explain Finnegans Wake?”

“Do you want me to continue or not?”

“The jury’s still out.”

“From ancient spirits in distress

You’ll hear bone-chilling lamentations.

They cry out for a second death,

Exposed to terrible sensations.

In Purgatory, in the fire

You may see those who think things nice

Because they dream of rising higher

To blesséd be in Paradise.

But if you wish yourself to rise

You’ll have to find another guide.

I am not worthy in God’s eyes

Because I didn’t take His side.”

“There’s a lot of can’t in this canto. How about we switch to a canno?”

“Hush. The second canto is starting.”

So many sins may be laid at the doorstep of former U.S. president Donald Trump that it’s easy to miss his perversion of Canada’s copyright system. But now that Justin Trudeau’s cabinet has implemented a 20-year extension of copyright protection in Canada, effective Dec. 30, 2022, it’s worth taking a glance at the fallout. For simplicity, let’s focus on books.

Even before this move, international copyright was fiendishly complicated.  Sherlock Holmes lost his final U.S. copyright on Jan. 1, 2023, but he has been in the public domain in Canada since 1981. By contrast, P.G. Wodehouse’s The Inimitable Jeeves (1923), his first novel with Jeeves and Bertie Wooster, has been out of U.S. copyright for four years, but will remain in copyright in Canada until the end of 2045. And Noël Coward’s play Private Lives will be out of U.S. copyright in three years, but will remain in Canadian copyright until the end of 2043.

Why? I’m so glad you asked.

The United States has a two-pronged system. Any book published in 1977 or earlier loses its copyright there 95 years after publication. Any book published after 1977 remains in copyright for 70 years after the author’s death. (Many other countries, notably in Europe, also use death-plus-70.)

In Canada – at least until Dec. 30 – copyright expired at the end of the calendar year 50 years after the author’s death. This satisfied the international Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works. The authors’ heirs – or, if they sold their copyright, whoever bought it – could control the work until the 50 years were up.

Enter the Canada-United States-Mexico free-trade agreement (CUSMA), which Canada ratified under duress in 2020 to replace the North American free-trade agreement. CUSMA gave Canada 30 months to increase copyright duration to death plus 70. That change kicked in on Dec. 30. (If the cabinet had waited two more days, any author who died in 1972 – e.g. Ezra Pound – would be out of copyright now. Instead, he/she gets another 20 years.)

Wait a minute, you may be saying. Isn’t copyright a good thing?

Copyright is a great thing. Creators of intellectual property should be compensated for their work, both to reward their effort and to encourage publication. The devil is in the duration.

Even on CUSMA’s own terms, moving to death-plus-70 was a mistake. Article 20.4 of CUSMA “recognize[s] the need to … promote innovation and creativity … [and] facilitate the diffusion of information, knowledge, technology and the arts … [while] taking into account the interests of relevant stakeholders, including rights holders, service providers, users and the public.”

Protecting not just the writers but their children’s children’s children’s children’s children (of, if a corporate owner, their shareholders’ children) postpones the free “diffusing” of the information, knowledge and artistic contents for so long that it makes a mockery of “taking into account” the interests of user and the public. Even death-plus-50 was stretching it. With the extension to death-plus-70, almost no one alive at the time of publication will legally be free to do what, for instance, writers have done with Dracula or Pride and Prejudice – reinvent them, create new adventures for them and make cultural hay with a literary icon. (By legally free, I mean you don’t need to track down the current copyright owner – not always easy – and obtain permission – which may well be withheld.) It might have rewarding to see someone reinvent the characters in The Lord of the Rings. J.R.R. Tolkien was scheduled to come out of Canadian copyright on Jan. 1, 2024. Now it will be in 2044. Same with cartoonist Walt Kelly, creator of the comic strip Pogo. Agatha Christie was scheduled to emerge on Jan. 1, 2027. Make that 2047.

The trick of copyright is deciding when society’s interest in protecting the rights of authors (and heirs) gives way to its interest in disseminating and expanding on that creation. CUSMA got it wrong.

[P.S. Nestlings Press had hoped to put together a book on illustrator Frank C. Papé, who died in 1972. No chance now. Trying to figure out who owns the copyright to his various books would be a nightmare, not to mention of uncertain cost.]

Here at Nestlings Press headquarters, where every hour of the day and night ferocious semis pull in and out of our seventeen loading docks groaning under the weight of new publications, we are bracing for two new volumes.

The first, The Sambourne Touch, collects some of the best drawings by Linley Sambourne, Punch cartoonist and book illustrator in the late 1800s and early 1900s. He could draw anything, and was praised by his peers – including John Tenniel (fellow Punch cartoonist and, of course, illustrator of Alice in Wonderland) – for his wizardry.

The other, Heresy at Lear’s End, rewrites the fifth line of almost every Edward Lear limerick to provide a different rhyme from the first line – because Lear, for whatever reason, almost always used the same word at the end of the first and fifth line. I tried to get in touch with Lear to ask why, but was told that he had been dead for more than a century, as if that were an excuse. The drawings, which were not created to accompany Lear’s verses (Lear illustrated his own works) but which come remarkably close, are by the great nineteenth-century artist J.J. Grandville, who died a year after Lear’s limericks were first published.

While we’re waiting for both books, let me share a thought about date Caesars. No, they aren’t Caesar salads with dates in them. They are Caesar salads obviously designed for couples on a date, who want the creaminess of a Caesar without the garlic. (If both parties eat garlic, they are evenly matched. If only one has garlic, it’s game over for the date.)

I love garlic in my Caesars, and have been regularly disappointed when what is advertised on the menu as a Caesar turns out to be a date Caesar. I have learned to ask whether the salad has garlic, and, if not, whether it can be jump-started with garlic just for me.

It is possible that the chefs hate me for this. It is also possible that they break out in smiles at the thought that someone desires his Caesar salad the way it should be made. (Well, not really. I don’t like anchovies.)

It is also possible that I have invented the term “date Caesar.” Feel free to spread it around, if only to enable diners who want garlic to use the shorthand when negotiating with the servers.

Most publishers will find a typographical error in their books now and then. However diligent the proofreading, something at some time is likely to slip through.

Nestlings Press has been fortunate not to have had more than one typo (well, maybe two) in each book, with the exception of the 2014 edition of How to Get to Heaven and Back, which was a rushed production and didn’t receive the proofreading it needed. (The revised and much-expanded 2020 edition was proofread to within an inch of its life, and appears typo-free, though some sharp-eyed reader will doubtless write in to quarrel with that assertion.)

The next (29^th) book to be issued is Rhymes with Doré, Flagg and Zorn, a collection of drawings, engravings and etchings by French artist Gustave Doré, American artist James Montgomery Flagg and Swedish artist Anders Zorn, accompanied by light verses-cum-doggerel by Warren Clements. One typo appears to have squeezed through the net, and this time the publisher intends to take the unusual step of including this notice with each copy mailed out:

“This is an interactive book. We have included a typographical error in one of the verses. When you find it, please change the r to a v and harmony will be restored to the universe.”

Footnote: If you do not find the typo, clearly it does not exist. That’s our story, and we’re sticking to it.

Warren Clements writes:

Given all the news recently about billionaires flying into outer space — Richard Branson, Jeff Bezos — a skit I wrote a couple of years ago seems prescient. It appears in the Nestlings Press book Stopping for Words on a Snowy Egret. And here is the complete text, for what I hope will be your reading enjoyment.

The Trip to Mars

[Inside a rocket ship to Mars. The HOST addresses the passengers, including BILL.]

HOST: Welcome aboard the new rocket ship to Mars. We realize how exciting this must be, and what a novel experience it will be for all of you. I want to let you know we will make our maiden flight as pleasant as possible. We have thirty-four brave souls on board, and you will have plenty of time to get to know one another. If there are any questions, I or any of the crew will be happy to answer them. [BILL raises his hand, waves it] I see a hand waving. Yes?

BILL: Excuse me, but you said thirty-four “brave” souls on board. May I ask why you chose the word “brave”?

HOST: As with any maiden excursion into the unknown, it requires a certain amount of courage to embark on a voyage knowing you will never see Earth again. Now, are there any oth – [BILL has raised his hand, is waving it] Yes?

BILL: Excuse me, what do you mean, may never see Earth again? I have a doctor’s appointment on Earth next Tuesday.

HOST: Sir, did you read our prospectus before you signed on?

BILL: Prospectus? I never saw a prospectus. My daughter-in-law thought it would be a marvellous opportunity to see the nearest planet in our solar system, and she signed me up.

HOST: And you thought it would take, how long to get there?

BILL: Well, it was never spelled out, but I assumed, what, a couple of hours?

HOST: Sir, we’re going to Mars.

BILL: Yes, I know, the Red Planet.

HOST: It’s estimated the trip will take years, and we don’t expect to be returning to Earth. The thrill is that we will be the first humans ever to arrive on the surface of Mars.

BILL: Are you telling me my daughter-in-law didn’t spring for a return ticket? Of all the cheap skinflints…

HOST: Sir, I hesitate to broach the subject, but since we’ll be together for a long time, we might as well start the conversation now. Do you and your daughter-in-law get along?

BILL: That’s a rather personal question.

HOST: Well, yes, but I –

BILL: No, no, I’m happy to answer. If you’d asked me that a couple of months ago, I would have said no. She was always complaining that I wasn’t giving my son enough money, that I was hoarding my multi-billion-dollar fortune without thinking of them.

HOST: And this changed, when?

BILL: Well, the trip to Mars. She thought it would be fun for us all to travel there, as a family, you know. So I sprang for the few billions necessary to buy all the tickets.

HOST: How many tickets?

BILL: Now, that’s the thing. I gave her enough for her, my son and the two kids, as well as me, at a billion dollars a pop. But just as I was boarding, I got a text message saying they wouldn’t be able to join me. Which I admit was a huge disappointment.

HOST: I’ll bet.

BILL: But I’d given her the money to buy the tickets, and she seemed sure she’d be able to get a refund for the tickets they couldn’t use…

HOST: Four people, so, four billion dollars…

BILL: Yes, exactly. But I don’t remember her mentioning anything about a one-way trip.

HOST: Nothing is carved in stone. We’ll be able to keep going on the surface of Mars for a little while, so there’s always the chance another rocket will come up.

BILL: With my family on board?

HOST: I wouldn’t count too heavily on that. I mean, call it a hunch, but…

BILL: But what?

HOST: What I mean is, science may discover a way to bring us back to Earth. It’s a huge step into the unknown, and that’s the thing about the unknown. It’s unknown.

BILL: I can’t imagine what could have made them miss the flight.

HOST: For the sake of harmony and peace on the voyage to come, I’m going to say they were scared.

BILL: Yes, that must be it. I see what you mean about “brave.” I am brave. And my family isn’t. Does that sound about right?

HOST: Absolutely. I can think of a million reasons why they didn’t come. Four billion, in fact.

BILL: Thank you so much. That makes me feel a lot better. So, I can’t remember what you said earlier – four hours to get there?

HOST [to the other passengers]: Anybody else have a question? Anyone? Please?…

One result of the continuing shutdowns and lockdowns is that I’ve been going through old files. The other day I found a batch of entries to the Challenge column I used to run at The Globe and Mail, and it’s worth sharing a few of them. The authors’ names are in brackets. If they amuse you, check out the Nestlings Press book How You Can Tell You’ve Moved Next Door to Satan (and Other Tips for Daily Life), which has 176 pages of similar gems – and illustrations to match.

How do you know you are a poor housekeeper? Your children think Easter eggs are delivered by the dust bunny. (Alanna Little)

You know you’ve stayed too late at the restaurant when the waiters stack the chairs – with you on one of them. (Gary E. Miller)

How do you know the deep-discount cruise wasn’t a good idea? The first clue is the long row of oars with chains and padlocks. (Gordon Findlay)

How do you know you’ve been cloned? Somehow you’re just not yourself any more. (Cheryl Minuk)

You know you’ve been conned when the coin you bought is inscribed “200 B.C.” (Audrey M. Bates)

You know your audience with the Pope didn’t go well when afterward you get traded to the Anglicans for future consideration. (Jerry Kitich)

You know you’re watching too much TV when you try to use the zapper to wake up your children. (John O’Byrne)

You know it’s time to buy a new computer when the Babbage Company notifies you they will no longer provide technical support for your Difference Engine No. 1. (Bruce W. Alter)

You know you need to wash your car if the speeding ticket says your car is grey, when it’s really white. (Arthur Chapman)

You know your party is too loud when the airport calls to complain about the noise. (Arthur Chapman)

You know you’ve gained too much weight when your talking scale says, “One at a time, please.” (John Roberts)

You know your blood pressure is too high if the nurse steps back a few feet as he pumps up the gauge. (Karl Dilcher)

How do you know when you have a computer virus? How do you know when you have a computer virus? How do you know when you have a computer virus? How do … (Brian Yamashita)