14 April 2006

Dope City Canucks Suck Shit Forever


Down, down, down ... deeper and down, down, down into the valley of the crackheads merrily went the Hammer and I. As we crossed the border from the drunken city into the bug eyed jungle I looked to my right to check out the misery of the crack camp and saw nothing but jungle. In the week since we had last walked the forest trail everything has gone green and grown like a President's wicked lies.

On top of the green wickedness a steady rain was falling faster than interest in Dope City Canuck season tickets for next year. Between slugs from my flask of Drambuie I stopped and smelled a purple salmonberry blossom. Its faint sweetness reminded me of a salmonberry pie a boyhood pal's mom baked after we emptied an urban forest of all the orange and red salmonberries we could find before pedalling them to her kitchen before the day's heat turned them to mush.

The Hammer spotted a scattering of fresh feathers from a pigeon still being digested by a cat purring and farting nastily on the lap of a man about to slam back a shooter and yell, "Those no good motherfucking Canucks! Why do they have to fuck it up every year!" The Hammer mouthed a few feathers and fantasized about the brave cat she very nearly had in her jaws in the back garden yesterday.

Further down the trail the Hammer found part of a carcass still fresh and bloody good. It looked like a rib cage. Oddly, after testing its flavour she dropped it for another scavenger to polish off. Once you have eaten fresh horse shit all else fails to satisfy I guess.

(Sonja and I have just returned from getting the race papers for tomorrow and dinner which included a pitcher of 1516 for Mr. Beer. Soon as I got home I took the Hammer back to the park where the rain continues to fall as I made arrangements to meet friends to take in a day at the races this weekend.)

The weather is so bad I can just barely make out the report on the radio that the Dope City Canucks have been eliminated from the playoffs by a poor excuse for a hockey team from California. There will be no playoff riots in Dope City this spring. There will be many people on the streets and in the crack parks as Dope City discovers, as it does most springs, that there are better things to do than watch teams from Warlord America duke it out for the Stanley Cup on the TV.

(My services as a headline writer are available by the dozen.)

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