When I was quite small the family used to live in a small town in Alberta. Small town by the name of Honeyville. It was a sweet little town. For fun us kids used to go play in the enamel graveyard where old bath tubs and appliances with the doors still firmly attached lay waiting for all the kids in the neighbourhood to test our ability to consume carbon dioxide in.
People used to still hang their clothes out to dry on a clothes line then. Now people think you have to be trailer trash or some sort of a motherfucking hippy trying to save the fucking whales if you hang your underwear out to dry in the breeze. In Alberta we used to freeze dry our clothes in the winter.
One day my mom was out on the back porch hanging up laundry to dry in the sun. The next door neighbour lady was yelling at my mom in a thick as pea soup French accent. Half of Honeyville had moved out of Quebec for some fucking reason. I guess it was not cold enough for them back east.
"Your little fuckhead of a son threw rocks at my boy!"
"How dare you make such accusations! Beer would never throw rocks at anybody."
The French lady's dumb fuck kid was hanging on his mom's flowery dress with blood drooling down the side of his face. My mom figured the French are always looking for something to gripe about. The kid had probably hit himself in the head with a can of pea soup.
"I tell you your son is a son of a bitch and a worshipper of the devil! If he throws another rock at my Pierre I will hit the little fucker over the head with a hockey stick!"
Like most little kids I was a son of a bitch and if the devil existed he was sure to be living in Alberta somewhere real handy for worshipping. I probably only threw rocks at Pierre because every time the Canadiens scored a goal on Hockey Night in Canada my dad would scream (loud enough for the neighbours to hear), "Those fucking frogs have scored again! Why doesn't somebody drop an H bomb on those bastards!"
The other thing I remember about Honeyville was that our house phone was stuck up on the wall and to operate it you cranked the handle on its side like old cars were started before the invention of the key start. Come to think of it, the Hockey family into which I was born were, for a time, the Honeyville Hillbillies.
4 comments:
i'm the least funny kid you'll ever meet. but at least i think i'm hilarious.
Thinking you are hilarious is half the Battle; the other half is beer.
beer--the good kind that us snobs prefer--could be considered more than half the battle. are you one of us?
...if the good kind of beer be preferable I guess I am a beer snob because it is all good.
These days I go for Patagonia, an Argentine brew. For draft beer here in B.C. I go for the 1516 Okanagan Springs bubbles up. When I am feeling traditional, like tonight, I have a glass or two of Teachers and break open a cube of Old Style.
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