Doing It In the Snow

I was trying to watch some American football on the tv as the snow piled higher and higher on the world outside but the Hammer would not let me or Sonja be. Sonja, her ears tired of the Hammer's squeaky ball squeaky noise, finally begged me to take the dog out into the storm. "You two motherfuckers out!" I had already taken my frisky dog for a couple short walks but the snow was just too much for her.

The wine and martinis the other night had fucked me up a little too much so we headed to the liquor store for a bottle of an old friend, my old friend scotch. My bar is stocked for Christmas and I did not want to start hitting that assortment yet. On our way there the Hammer ploughed through the snow like a black steam powered train, eating up big mouthfuls of the strange white powder and spitting hot air out of her mouth and her waggy caboose.

As I looked in a store window near the shops in town I saw the reflection of the Hammer, half covered in snow, and me in my winter great coat, snow piled as high on my toque as any statue and seal fur mittens. I have had the seal fur mittens for years but only worn them once or twice when it has really been too warm to wear them in the first place. The warming of our doomed planet has damn near taken the Canadianity out of living in this warm corner of the coolest crazy country on the planet. Today I was a motherfucking Canuck with my big shitting motherfucking Canuck dog.

In the liquor store I chose one of the new scotches they now stock, a bottle of 10 year old Balvenie. Scotch, which I could drink like milk when I was a young man, gets me plenty messed up. That is why I try and stick to the beer now. At least I knew I would not mix it with chocolate vagina martinis tonight.

On the way home my dog and I stopped to watch people slip slide around in their cars like Friday night drunks on New Year's Eve in just about any Canadian town you could name. One car, left running nosed into a street sign, was rescued by a considerate neighbour. "I'll get the fucker up the hill." Sure enough he did. Some people can drive in the snow, the rest of us hit the booze and watch.

Eddy and Crazy Ray stepped out of the pub for a smoke as I hesitated in front of it. Eddy asked, "How's the fucking Hammer Beer?" as Crazy Ray brushed the snow off her with his cigarette stink fingers. Crazy Ray asked, "So you coming in for a couple?" I told him, "I have a bottle of single malt scotch I'd rather talk to today than you drunk motherfuckers."

The Hammer is home now, sleeping after her dinner. Her big paws and long whiskers twitching as she dreams of seal pup massacres. My scotch tastes like milk. Bring it on, winter, bring it on.

And to top off a fine day I heard the good people of Steepleton voted yesterday to proceed with a few big civic projects including a 7,000 seat hockey arena for me to get pissed in and make a huge ass out of myself in. Maybe, just maybe, there is a fucking God.