19 August 2015
My Prime Minister is reminding
Me more and more of
Every failed overestimated world
Leader with each passing day.
His repeated lies
Pile up around him
Like skin fallen
From a pit of snakes.
His Revolutionary Guard
Of his Worthiness.
Their weapons reconsider their
18 August 2015
She joined us in our favourite breakfast place
We both glanced at her walking in
Before returning to our electronic devices
Left her skateboard rocking boyfriend
Out on the sidewalk looking at his shoes
She asked a waitress to lend her the house phone
As she was waiting for the phone
She turned and scanned the restaurant
No one was looking up but me
Writers are nosy that way
She was wearing a black hoodie with the words
"99 MOTHERFUCKING PROBLEMS" printed on it
She had a black belt in understatement
16 August 2015
Walked two traditionally heavy Conservative polls today. Just like a lot of other people trying to Stop Harper and his fucking stooges we have to do much of our hunting in just such territory. As the responses from people's front porches began to add up two unmistakeable trends emerged.
Stubborn Conservative voters are choosing to say they are voting for Harper's local stooge rather than Harper himself or his party. This may be a way for them to divorce themselves from the so big it is impossible to ignore heap of shit government and Prime Minister they are responsible for. "Hey," they seem to be saying, "Our guy isn't the crooked motherfucker."
The second trend is previously Conservative voters giving a party other than the one presently in power due consideration. Never enough such individuals and families for my liking but enough of them to make me feel a little better about my country.
I would like to report I went out drinking once the day's work was done. That, I believe, may have been part of Harper's plan when he decided to gift Canada with the longest, most expensive, election in history. I am not falling for it. If I went all Hunter Thompson for 11 weeks of campaigning this one may have been my last. 6 straight weeks of that is about all I am likely to survive as I make my way grudgingly from my September years into October.
The party starts on Labour Day, motherfuckers. Buy a ticket and take the fucking ride.
15 August 2015
Election news anybody? Here on the ground we are not sensing any enthusiasm for the Conservatives. Nor are we getting doors slammed in our face.
Not saying the Conservative's goose is cooked here in Steepleton. The Conservative's goose has been plucked, gutted and prepared for the oven however. If I am sure I can smell it cooking you will be sure to hear about it.
The Conservative's supporters are weary of supporting them and unsure where to turn. They get queasy looking at their Naked Emperor. People in my town are not real keen on politicians and when it turns out their guy, the guy they thought was good, is worse than most and perhaps the worst of all and that by voting for him and his local stooge once again they are pissing on what is left of their own old time values, and that his undoing is paving the way for the NDP (the fucking NDP!) to take over just like they did in Alberta, it makes a man sit up and pay attention.
And it makes this man happy he has not skirted his democratic responsibilities.
14 August 2015
One of the cutest things my dog the Hammer has done for as long as she has shared life with Sonja and I is vomit. Dog fucking loves to puke.
She likes to heave in the night. Sometimes she wakes me up to get let out to do her puking. Other times she pukes on the carpet. Funny that is. Always the carpet. When she has to piss indoors she is sure to do so on the linoleum. Never the carpet. A place for everything, everything in its place.
My other dogs were not heavers. They had their own cute individual touches. Strangler liked to leave dead rats in places you would least expect. Ranger ate the odd cat.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
The Hammer is still going strong by the way. She is a tough motherfucking bitch.
9 August 2015
I am from another planet. A planet that used to buy records, 8-tracks, cassettes and compact discs. A planet that made mix tapes in the night and played them the next morning drinking coffee and smoking weed to see how they had done.
I still do all that shit except for the weed smoking. Hope the weed is good in the old dears' home if that should be my fate later this century. I think I will want it again, want to visit the Hall of the Mountain Grill again, when I cannot get out as much as I would like.
Latest addition to my music collection is Buddy Guy's new record. Listened to it several times in the car since I bought it at London Drugs a few days ago. Better by far than anything you have listened to this year.
Highlight for me is the last song, a call for Muddy Waters to come back from the dead, pick up his guitar, sit down on his stool and sing. Get back into his Cadillac (same car I drive), the one with weed in the glove box and a hidden bottle of whisky in a sack.
Go fucking buy it you weed smoking, whisky drinking, blues loving motherfuckers.
7 August 2015
I watched the leader's debate tonight on my television screen. (Note to non-Canadians - we are a polite lot, in your country leaders may be known by some other, possibly scatological, descriptor.) Like most of my countrymen who could be bothered to tune in I did so with a cold beer within reach at all times. In this my countrymen to the east had the advantage - they all had time to get their shitface on before the show. I only had time for three before I started paying attention.
Jimi phoned soon after all four leaders had got in their opening remarks. He does not usually consult me on matters political. Was today my chance to influence him? At the beginning of an election campaign longer than a whale's reproductive apparatus?
"I wouldn't fuck Elizabeth May with your dick," he told me.
"You get off work early today" I asked him.
"Had to," he answered. "An hour to drink before a leader's debate is not near enough. Would you fuck her?"
I had to think about it.
"I think I would rather fuck Trudeau."
"Nice ass too. Just like his mom's. What about the other two?"
"Would I fuck them?"
I did not have to think about that long. Harper's wife probably does not even fuck him. At least you could count on Mulcair blowing you feeling like a puppy dog's kiss.
All of which is to underscore why Canadian election campaigns should never begin in the middle of summer. Even if we are paying attention, and few of us are, we are in no frame of mind to be choosing fucking Prime Ministers.
5 August 2015
Spent the middle day of the long weekend with some trailer trash. Friends of ours spend most of their summer weekends and all their summer holidays at this place on the edge of an out of the way river with likeminded people in their RVs. There are shitloads of places just like it all across Canada filled with snotface kids, their shitface parents and their shit eating dogs.
Sonja and I try to keep away from such gatherings because the attendees have a tendency to drink even more than we do. Sunday night was Mexican themed, trailer fucker's love their theme parties, and we figured a little tequila might be just the thing to take the edge off the unnaturally hot weather we have been living with for months now, so we let down our guard, hit the liquor store and joined the party.
"What you got in there?" One of my fellow campers asked me seeing I did not have a strawberry blender drink in my hand like everyone else.
"Tequila and soda," I told him. "When I start vomiting blood, which my doctor says I will probably start doing soon, I want to know about it."
He looked at me like I was Stephen Hawking or something before he asked me if I wanted to smoke some hash oil sprinkled with cocaine. That explained why people were not already passing out in their lawn chairs like they ought to have been. After briefly considering revisiting my drug taking past I declined the offer. Was not easy though. Nothing gives you relief from a heatwave like a visit from the White Powder gods.
If you have ever seen Canadians whooping it up in Mexico you will already have a pretty good idea what the party looked like: more vomit per square foot than a punk rock show during mushroom season. What really made it look like a night in Mexico was the lack of men swinging axes as they drank to provide wood for the campfire. The axes were safely stored away due to the fire ban.
There ought to have been river rafting adventurers making their way down the river but there is not enough water to get the rafts downriver. Fuck, there was hardly enough water in the river to get a kayak down it.
Climate change is fucking us pretty good around here. Not like we are roasting dead babies over an open fire like they do in that Cormac McCarthy novel "The Road" or anything yet but the foreshadowing of just such desperation is there for all to see if you have the stomach to look.
2 August 2015
Made the Powell Street Festival for the first time yesterday. Dope City has so many fucking festivals it is hard to keep up. Moreover, there are so many motherfucking festivals going on all over the place the word festival has become an empty one.
It is worth asking who benefits from all these god damn festivals anyway. I am beginning to think the prime beneficiary of festivals are the companies who bring in the portable shitters and the chemical companies that provide the blue water for your shit to splash into.
That is my Sunday bitch. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.
Fact is Sonja, Kitty, Hunky, and I enjoyed the festival very much. If you have time Sunday you should drop by. Good food, good music, lots of crafts. Only thing missing we would have liked to see was a beer garden. Japs like their beer too on a hot day, don't they?
I bought an Asahi baseball cap; Sonja bought some pale purple beads; Kitty bought some fun crap for her grandchildren; Hunky ate several servings of Spam and rice, a Japanese delicacy apparently.
There was a booth there asking for community input on how old Japantown might be commemorated in perpetuity in some small yet meaningful way. I suggested they install a 50 foot tall Godzilla that would roar and shoot flames out of its mouth every hour on the hour on top of one of the old buildings that give the area and the rest of Dope City what little is left of its once abundant charm.
Since we parked in Gastown we got to enjoy its faded charm as well as we made our way back and forth from the car. Not the head shops and cool shit capital of Western Canada it once was. Told a couple pairs of tourists looking for the park the Powell Street Festival was being held at that they would find it at the end of the alley behind the Carnegie Centre.
Got beer in the Tramplighter. A lot of people around us seemed to be getting their food orders fucked up and the pretty waitresses did not seem too happy with what was going on behind the scenes there. I am guessing the owner and or manager of the place is a real cunt. If anybody who reads this is a regular there they ought to have an impolite word with the fucker. He was probably lazing around on his boat in the Okanagon yesterday.
Met people from Ontario and Wales. Had a great chat with them all. People from Dope City are a lot nicer than people from around here. By the time we headed home I was beginning to wish I had not sent the other tourists on a tour of Ground Zero. We will never see those motherfuckers again.