Like just about any Canadian couple Sonja and I try and squeeze every drop out of our sweet lemon summers. I reckon I have twenty, maybe thirty left, tops. Sonja might have a few more left than that. She sleeps more than me. That is the key to longevity. The key to dancing on your old fucking man's grave. And it is the only reason more of the patient bitches do not kill us in our sleep.
Once breakfast was done with I took the dog to the river for her fun. Spoke briefly with a young gal loaded down with water bottles, energy goo and thigh lube as I was unloading the dog from the big black Cadillac with the whips, furs and cold Canadian beer in the back. "Isn't it fucking great?" she asked me rhetorically.
Young women are the inspiration for the bad language I use in the Dope City Free Press. There is nothing I have written here that I have not heard a young woman spit out in public.
It was fucking great. A storm had blown through in the night but it was calmer than a judge and warmer than Anne Murray's tits as my dog and I headed down the trail. Quiet too. Just a few easily spooked ducks for the Hammer to flush out of the river's back eddies. Usually there are hawks, eagles and swans around. The farmers were fucking the dog. There is still some work for them to do before winter sets in but they were not doing it today.
Finally a heron gave away his position with big throaty, "Squonk!" The Hammer had disturbed his feeding hole. He gave us the stink eye from his dead branch perch. Sorry, man. Of all the birds I have long identified with herons. In the winter they remind me of my boom man days when I liked nothing better than leaning on my pike pole, never giving an inch to winter or the fucking foreman.
Now Sonja is sipping wine by the fireplace; I am drinking some 30 year Alberta Premium; on the stereo it is Elvis - "Paradise - Hawaiian Style." Sonja says it is sexy. I am getting lucky tonight, motherfuckers.
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