10 October 2011

VIFF - Ingrid Veninger and Friends At the Lennox Pub

Sonja and I had been drinking with Jimi on Saturday night so it took us a while to get going Sunday morning but get going we did. The night had gone well until we got into a bottle of damiana liqueur which got us even higher than we had intended to get. I have a suggestion for you: do not drink that shit.

Sonja needed new clothes for winter, the Hammer needed a walk and I needed to see the inside of a pub. We decided downtown Dope City would be a good place to do all that.

Sonja needs no help shopping so while she did that the Hammer and I sat down in the Lennox pub's patio, just out of the sun, and did what we do best: fuck the dog. I had a table to myself, an ice cold pint of Strongbow and all the pretty women of Dope City dropping by to lean over in front of me to pet my magnet dog. The older I get, the more I like titties.

Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself seven people came out onto the patio. They did not even have to ask. I gave up my table and sat down a little further from the action. Us Anarchists do not get much credit for it but when we see an opportunity to serve the greater good, seven people drinking is better than one after all, we try and be as neighbourly as possible.

The women kept coming to lean over and pet my dog. That was the main thing. Between lusty gawks at titties of every colour and size imaginable I listened to the Group of Seven, as I now knew them. Turned out they were all involved in the Dope City International Film Festival - creative motherfuckers like me. One of the women was the director of a film entered in the festival. Something, possibly, to do with Underwear Man. You may have already guessed it was a Canadian film. Us Canadians like to make movies about the god damnedest things.

Every forty-five minutes or so Sonja would return with a package which I placed on my table until after a while I barely had room for my drink. Then she would go off for more.

The ciders kept going down and the women kept bending over and petting my dog. This, I thought, is the best Thanksgiving ever.

Since I had given up my table to the Group of Seven I thought they might buy me a drink. That would be the Canadian thing to do. But no such offer was forthcoming. Cheap, ungracious film cunts I thought to myself. Oh well, I further sighed to myself, Canadians are not what they used to be.

When Sonja came back with the last of her purchases I had my waitress, who  had bent over a time or two to pet the Hammer as well, to fetch me my cheque. As I got up to go and pay one of the Seven (film maker Bart Simpson I believe) motioned me over and said, "I hope you didn't expect to pay for any of those ciders," and took the cheque from my hand. "We got it," he told me. "Thanks for lending us your table."

I, of course, was elated and told them that I had just previously written them off as ungrateful, cheap, film scum. We all enjoyed a good laugh over that as I thanked them for restoring my faith in my country.

We still got it, motherfuckers. We still fucking got it.

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