4 August 2006
Driving the highway the last couple of weeks worth of workdays has been like Sunday driving back in the days Dope City was still widely considered to be a viilage of dopers. It used to be dope starved Americans could be counted on to fill up the space in the road vacated by local holidayers but the bullshit at the border has seriously trimmed the number of Americans who visit my war ravaged country. It was not until I saw a biker giving an inconsiderate car driver a prolonged middle fingering that I was reminded I am still driving amongst the Damned.
At the pub on my way home I heard a Dutch accent from a fellow chatting with his wife over dwindling pints of wholesome Canadian beer. His wife looked like a big tall Heineken can with enormous tits and hairy armpits. I asked the Dutch guy, "Do you Dutch fuckers still buy Canadians a beer if they remind you how we kicked German ass back in the '40s?
He said, "That depends."
I said, "My grandpa was one of the German ass kickers."
The Dutchman said, "Pull up a chair," and waved my favourite waitress Cindy over. I told her I would have whatever my new Dutch friends were having. Beer is beer really. Cindy said, "Just so long as you promise to behave Beer." I agreed to behave. Behaviour is a relative thing after all.
The beer was good and I had a good chat with my two generous with the beer friends. The lady asked me, I guess because I smelled of sweat and sawdust, "So when do you take a vacation?"
I told her, "I'm like everybody else around Dope City. I am on vacation from January 1st until December 31st every year. The bosses of this town used to try and buck that idea but they have given up. Life," I told Mrs. Heineken as the beer gouged a philosophical rut in my brain, "Is a vacation. That's what my grandpa went to war to prove when some evil motherfuckers were intent on proving that life was a prison."