A Couple Glasses On the Porch

Once Sonja had a couple glasses on the porch after work, we hooked up the Hammer and walked to the pub to celebrate the drawn out democratic death of the HST. I think that is why the fucking government decided to release the results on a Friday: they did not want to add yet another day of still half drunk from the night before unproductivity to the calendar.

As we walked we could smell meat being charred on backyard grills and hear the I would have killed the fucking boss if I had to listen to his bullshit for five more minutes Friday night laughter. In other words, this Friday night was just like any other, election or not.

After tying the dog up with her water in the shade we took a seat in the pub, from where we could keep an eye on our dog, beside a group of people from my pharmacy. They were already half way to pickled.

My pharmacist, the boss of the table, was complaining about how he was going to have to change over his accounting system yet again with the HST's slow death. Fucker actually thought the rest of the province would back the government just like our city did.

"First I have to change everything for GST. Then I change everything again for HST. Now I change again because HST gone. Lot of work for nothing. Just keep government happy."

Sonja and I clinked glasses, her's full of warm red, mine full of draught cider colder than Christy Clark's eyes. "That'll teach the motherfucker to vote for Mulroney and Campbell in the same lifetime," Sonja laughed as she kicked my leg under the table.

My pharmacist was not the only one moaning about Van Der Zalm's socialist hoardes tossing the armless, legless HST into the deep end of the pool. People around here figure God Himself must have fucked up whenever the bosses do not get what they want, when they want it.

Now I know what it is like to win a Stanley Cup on the road. It is fucking excellent.