It was getting late by the time I had completed some after work business so I phoned Sonja at work to see what I could pick up for dinner on my way home.
Sonja said, "Fish and chips but pick me up a bottle of wine first."
Sounded good to me. I fucking love fish and chips. My mom and dad used to cook some up every Friday so we would not piss God off by eating meat. Fucking stupid that was but it sure tasted good once a week. These days I make sure to eat meat on Fridays. God can suck my dick.
In the liquor store I bought Sonja a bottle of BC red and accidentally on purpose knocked over three bottles of American wine onto the floor. Americans can suck my dick too as long that Nazi dog is their President.
In the chippy I ordered our halibut to go and a pitcher of 1516 to drink in the ten minutes it takes them to fry up our order. My waitress brought it over with two chilled glasses.
"One glass will do unless you are going help me drink this," I told her.
"But your order will be ready in less than ten minutes, sir," she objected.
I drained my glass before her objection was over and was already pouring another before she turned away from me in disbelief. Those Serving It Right certificates booze servers have to obtain to get hired might as well be ass wipe for all the good they do.
As I was pouring the third glass I spotted Ned the Red, Steepleton's oldest NDP supporter having dinner with an old boy friend of his. I went over for a quick chat.
"Beer!" he greeted me. "How the fuck are you you dirty old cocksucker?"
Ned was a sawmill worker like me once. We like to think our somewhat limited vocabularies add colour to our black and white world.
I gave him a John Horgan button in exchange for a promise he would not eat for a week because of the size of the cheque he was going to cut the local campaign next month.
"Hell," he said, "I would starve myself for a fucking month if I thought my cheque would get that insufferable cunt Clark off my tv."