21 February 2017

Captain Maniac Radio

There is but one Captain Maniac. He drums for the Pink Fairies of Surrey - Sparkling Apple.

Captain Maniac, real name Colin Hartridge, does some fine fucking podcasting on the side. So fine is his podcasting he has become a Fellow Motherfucker - over there on the DCFP's right margin.

19 February 2017

Six Different High End Root Beer

If the word beer is in it I am all for it. Beer is good in everything and with everything. Everything can be improved with it and everything can be made worse without it.

I like beer soup, beer soap, beer bread, beer baths, beer trucks, beer lasagna, beer guts, beer hunts, beer haunts, beer can chicken, beer fights, beer wars, beer gardens and the beer barrel polka.

So here is my story. I was in a candy store. All the candy looked tasty but I did not buy any. Instead I bought six different high end root beer I had never tried before. Now they are all gone and you know what? They all tasted good but they all tasted inferior to the root beer they pour at A&W. Which got me thinking about beer and beer sommeliers and all their beer sommelier bull shit.

The fancy root beer I bought cost me far more than fast food root beer yet it did not even taste as good as the cheap shit. All I was paying for was the fucking label.

So if you are drinking a fancy bottle of beer right now, maybe even thinking you are some kind of hipster motherfucker for doing so, you may want to think about the possibility you could have bought some of the cheap beer your dad drank and looked yourself in the mirror the next day and not thought you are a moron like I did this morning.

16 February 2017

Strangler, Then Ranger, Then the Hammer

It is a year now
Since the Hammer died.
Longest I have been
Without a dog ever.

She was not a perfect dog
But she was close to perfect.
That is why her replacement
Seems impossible.

It is said the dead
Want us to move on.
To keep on keeping on.
Strangler, then Ranger, then the Hammer

Have yet to say shit about that.

14 February 2017

8,000 Miles Away and Still 40 Years Away From the Velvet Underground Being Awarded a Grammy

By 1976 I still had not heard The Velvet Underground. I knew of them of course. Their records, however, were hard to come by in the suburbs where I lived. They could not even be found in the piles of delete records the music industry had given up on selling where I was introduced to bands like the Stooges.

I only knew and loved Reed's first six or seven solo records until I found myself going to school in England and I was at last presented with the Velvets. That is how far Sliverville in the '70s was from civilization - about 8000 miles.

The boys in my school could not believe it. "That is fucking perverse, mate. Who has all Reed's solo records but none of the Velvets'?"

Only me apparently.

The English kids were all motherfucking hipsters of course. Turned me on to loads of other bands I may never have got to. The Pink Fairies, Dave Edmunds, Alex Harvey, Steve Hillage, the Groundhogs, Stray, Curved Air and Judas Priest among them.

Pretty soon I knew all the words to "Sister Ray." Maybe not the education my parents had in mind when they sent me off to England with but one warning - "Any of those boys tries anything on you punch them out good."

12 February 2017

Pick A Team 2017

You probably know I am something of an election geek. Live for it I do. Lot of shit hitting the fan considering we are still two months away from the campaign proper if you ask me. You may have noticed it is the Liberal Party and its leader's face where most of the shit is being blown. It is lovely but I am not reading a fucking thing into it. Working for the traditional underdog prevents me from taking joy in anything happening until the final results trickle in.

It is not about being looked upon favourably. It is not about your opponents' momentum or lack thereof. It is about playing every minute of the game until the final whistle, the final out. It is about winning and it is about losing, motherfuckers.

Hunter S. Thompson was right: "In a democracy, you have to be a player." Game's on. Find yourself a fucking team.

11 February 2017

Jackass Number One and Jackass Number Two

In a democracy, you have to be a player. - Hunter S. Thompson

I was wondering what the people of Canada are thinking about now they all know they elected us yet another fucking jackasshole Prime Minister as I drank the first of many after work Friday beers. I was hoping the guy who sat down at the only empty barstool beside me might have something to say about the subject but he had other things on his mind.

"Had a hundred bucks on the Canucks game last night. Figured the BJs would beat them silly," he said as he got to work on his own beer.

"Fucking Canucks!" I agreed. "Always on the fucking lookout for new fucking ways to piss a fucking guy off."

He drank. I drank. Everybody drank their beer.

Soon it was six. There was no hockey on tv so the news was on. The sound was muted, thank Jesus Fucking Christ, but Christy Clark's pouty face could be seen blubbering away.

"She has to go!" my drinking buddy spat. "She makes me want to puke every time I see or hear her. She's got as much shit between her ears as that Trudeau motherfucker."

If my bar stool poll taught me anything it was only there was lots of company to be found at the bottom of the popularity pool.

6 February 2017

Winning Cures Everything

Met friends in the East Valley on Sunday. Super Bowl Party. Guaranteed fun.

Highway was maintained well considering two feet of snow had just fallen. My fellow drivers and I roared over the icy pavement like we were on our way to the lake to go fishing. If anyone had touched their brakes the resulting multiple crashes would have seen most of us stored outside the morgue would have been piled so high with the dead.

Off the highway the drifts were four feet high, the wind pushing them across the roads faster than the road crews could keep up with their encroachment.

Party was in a pub. I drank Red Roof cider all day long. It is the fentanyl of ciders. Strong as anti-fascists are going to need to be in the coming decades.

I had bet heavily on the Patriots. It was not looking very fucking good until the last quarter.

Today, of course, I took the day off work. Winning cures everything, motherfuckers.

4 February 2017

A Drive In the Snow

"It is not going to fucking stop is it?" Eddie asked me.

I shook my head. It was lunch time. We were in the back of his camper van enjoying a glass of vodka with our cheese sandwiches and watching the snow bury the cars around us.

"Going to take us hours to make it home tonight," I said. Everybody in the sawmill was thinking the same thing except for a handful of lifers who have lived near enough to the sawmill to hear it running at night for decades. Back when sawmills ran at night that is.

"If it was not Friday I sleep right here in the van," Eddie told me as if I did not already know.

Eddie and I live where your corn, berries and barn grown marijuana comes from. Snow can mean getting home four, five hours after the last green gold has been sawn for the day.

Back in the mill my foreman told me, "I know you and Eddie are drinking out there at lunch."

"Go fuck yourself," I told him as I got to work. Motherfucker drinks twice as much as I do and fistfucks underage Indian hookers on the weekend is what I hear.

The highway, of course, was as fucked up as Lemmy in '75, '85, '95, 05 or '15. I decided to take my chances on the farmer highways. They were icy and got icier the further I slipped into the sticks. The snow got deeper and deeper until there was no road at all. I knew eventually I would have to climb one of the steep hills from the valley into my buttfuck country city.

I did so with three other brave or just plain dumb drivers. The first one got stuck halfway up the hill. I tried to pass him but got stuck too and had back up behind him. Next up was an RV who tried to pass us both and got stuck in the same place. The three of us sat there wondering what the fuck to do.

Finally the first guy who got stuck (in his rusty old Saturn) tried again and began to make some progress. I followed from a safe distance making the same slow progress. Motherfucker in the RV was probably wondering how the fucking salesman talked him into buying the overpriced, under-engineered piece of Japanese shit he was driving that could not climb a country hill, never mind a mountain like you see such vehicles conquering on tv.

When I got home I poured myself a big glass of cask strength single malt. Got home in just less than two hours. Men do not get to really feel like a man much these days. Today's drive in the snow gave me that feeling. The feeling that nobody fucks with Beer.


3 February 2017

Fish and Chips With Ned the Red

It was getting late by the time I had completed some after work business so I phoned Sonja at work to see what I could pick up for dinner on my way home.

Sonja said, "Fish and chips but pick me up a bottle of wine first."

Sounded good to me. I fucking love fish and chips. My mom and dad used to cook some up every Friday so we would not piss God off by eating meat. Fucking stupid that was but it sure tasted good once a week. These days I make sure to eat meat on Fridays. God can suck my dick.

In the liquor store I bought Sonja a bottle of BC red and accidentally on purpose knocked over three bottles of American wine onto the floor. Americans can suck my dick too as long that Nazi dog is their President.

In the chippy I ordered our halibut to go and a pitcher of 1516 to drink in the ten minutes it takes them to fry up our order. My waitress brought it over with two chilled glasses.

"One glass will do unless you are going help me drink this," I told her.

"But your order will be ready in less than ten minutes, sir," she objected.

I drained my glass before her objection was over and was already pouring another before she turned away from me in disbelief. Those Serving It Right certificates booze servers have to obtain to get hired might as well be ass wipe for all the good they do.

As I was pouring the third glass I spotted Ned the Red, Steepleton's oldest NDP supporter having dinner with an old boy friend of his. I went over for a quick chat.

"Beer!" he greeted me. "How the fuck are you you dirty old cocksucker?"

Ned was a sawmill worker like me once. We like to think our somewhat limited vocabularies add colour to our black and white world.

I gave him a John Horgan button in exchange for a promise he would not eat for a week because of the size of the cheque he was going to cut the local campaign next month.

"Hell," he said, "I would starve myself for a fucking month if I thought my cheque would get that insufferable cunt Clark off my tv."

31 January 2017

Trump This. Trump That.

Trump this. Trump that. I am already beginning to not give a fuck. I am a Canadian who lives in Canada. Not much I can do to bring that motherfucking pig down from here. I already boycott so much American shit I do not know if I can add anything more to that list.

Basically I have enough fucking problems in my own country. You American assholes are on your fucking own.