1 October 2011
Steepleton Friday Night
Had to get my hair cut first of all. Had a whisky, had a shower, had a whisky and headed to the barber shop. I was my barber's last cut of the day.
"Now my kids are all growed up it seems like I have enough money left over at the end of the month to do a little investing. You got any ideas?" he asked as he snipped away at my greying hair.
Everybody wants a sure fucking thing except there is no sure fucking thing except for betting against the Canucks winning the Stanley Cup and everybody around here is too stupid to make that investment. I told him to put what he had into oil and gold.
"Those shithead democracies they got going in Egypt, Iraq and Libya will never last and after the motherfucking Americans nuke I-Fucking-Ran so hard there will not be one of the raghead motherfuckers left who can remember who the star of the Koran was and shit will be so unstable and fucked up the price of oil and gold will rise higher than tickets to a hockey game in Canada during the play-offs."
"Anything else?" he asked.
"Old motorcycles," I told him. "You can never have enough old motorcycles." Hell, even if the bottom falls out of the old motorcycle market an old motorcycle will still get you fucked silly every once in a while. And what would you rather be - fucked silly or rich? Fucked silly every time, motherfuckers.
Sonja was home sucking a bottle of wine when I pulled my old car into the drive. "Japanese?" I asked. Did not have to.
Had a whisky and played with the dog before we left the house. Glen Breton. None of that foreign shit for me.
There was a crackhead looking in the windows of a car we parked beside by our favourite Japanese. Cunt. Fucking. Crackhead. We decided to take a table from where we could keep an eye on our vehicle.
Sonja ordered wine. I ordered an Asahi. Large. They know us at the Japanese. We eat. We drink. We pay. We tip. We are Canadians with money. The world's favourite people.
A high school football player in a letter jacket staggered into the joint with a cougar on his arm as we waited for our meal. Fullback. Linebacker. Motherfucker.
When we got home the Lions were on tv. You've got to roar, you Lions, roar!