23 December 2012

They Stopped Issuing the Eaton's Christmas Catalogue



Like most years since they stopped issuing the Eaton's Christmas catalogue it did not seem like Christmas at all this year. Living under the Guinness sky, as we do here in Dope City, and having only endured enough snow (fucking inches of it!) to close down the Trans-Canada for half a dozen hours because of the total motherfucking incompetence of the firm our totally motherfucking incompetent government chose to build the latest pyramid of a bridge, has a way of keeping Christmas back of mind.

I feel different now just three days before my family and I gather to celebrate Jesus encouraging us to bring more alcohol into our lives. That will happen when you wake up and remember you do not have to return to the fucking sawmill for the better part of two weeks.

Perhaps television, which has been encouraging us to return to the Roman Catholic Church we all told to fuck off and die a long time ago, had already begun to engage my Christmas spirit in the weeks before this. Saw Michael Buble's Christmas special from last year a week or two ago; last night I caught a re-broadcast of the show he put together this year right here in Dope City. I am not sure if I like Buble or not. He seems like an ideal next door neighbour.

Rod Stewart was on this year's show. Was a time I thought a lot of the old Scot cunt. His song "Maggie Mae" is forever entwined with my memories of skating on the frozen flats of boyhood Sliverville. There were lots of wide open spaces then. Now the only ones left are the cemetaries. I do not mind old rockers like Stewart still making a go of it in their silver years. I hope he is glad people like me still listen to his old records because I sure as fuck am not going to buy his much promoted recent Christmas release.

Today the Hammer woke me three hours before dawn. I did some chores then I put her in the car. After I did some grocery shopping we went for a walk. There was a bitter as a beaten politician wind blowing from the north east. We walked into it then we let it blow us all the way back to the car like we were plastic bags on the freeway.

By then the liquor store was open. Filled up a buggy and went home. I could hear the bottles clinking merrily against one another as we bounced along the road home.

Sonja greeted us at the door. "Let me help you with those," she said reaching for the case of wine and peeking happily inside.

Beats Christmas in Syria, motherfuckers.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

From one old slab plant worker to another, happy holidays and all the best in the new year.

RossK said...

I'm on the fence with Mr. Buble also, as I am with all creatures of Mr. Big 'round here, Bruce Allen.

In fact, that is the reason that, even now, I can't quite get fully behind R. Bachman.

Thank the Goddes the Snowbird was already fully formed before Mr. Big got his hooks in her.

.

Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

Having a happy holiday has never been a problem for those of us old sawmill workers that still have a fucking job. Looking forward to the future has been quite another matter. 2013, at least, looks ok from here. A few more disasters like Sandy and it will be all roses.

My only concern with Buble is that he is a fan of the fucking Canucks. Losers!