Dope City Can

The best thing about summer weekends around Dope City is all the people who load themselves and their beer into their sumo wagons and go over-populate some other town. Their absence gives the rest us of some elbow room. The elbow room reminds me of what Dope City was like before the speculative aftermath of Expo '86 resulted in the spunky city we are all so proud of today.

Sonja, the Hammer and I took advantage of the situation by getting out of sleepy Steepleton and spending an afternoon on the Drive. I guess the rest of Dope City can fuck off as far as we are concerned. A couple of kooks and their dog fit into the Drive like a truck load of cocaine fits into Fort McMurray on pay day.

We headed straight for our favourite restaurant, stopping only to allow the Hammer to sniff the abundance of human and canine urine splashed on every corner and doorway. As Sonja ordered our hippy food I struck up a conversation with a couple old punkers who had just finished their meal. The motherfuckers had started off life in Squeamish, no place for a punkrocker to remain if he wanted to retain all his limbs. I told them, "You fuckers sure look healthy for a couple old punks." The oldest of the pair said, "Speed must be a vitamin I guess."

After lunch and after we had bought some hard-to-come-bys I chanced upon a couple old Stompin' Tom lps in a new-to-you not yet in my collection. The Hammer cocked her big head at me as I was singing along to "The Squid Jigging Song" just before I sat down to write this and check the day's race results. A gold-throated north country minstrel I'm not.

There is no better time to get hot with the thoroughbreds than when you are on strike and looking to be on strike for a long fucking time. Thank you Backseat Becka and For Jake's Sake for this week's pay cheque.

See you at the bar on B.C. Cup Day next Monday.