The Colonel Tips Poorly

This afternoon I executed one of the most important functions under my authority at the brewery--I went to get the birthday bird at Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Yes, you heard it right. Each employee that celebrates a birthday at my place of work is treated to 40 pieces (two buckets) of juicy KFC. They are expected to share with the rest of the staff.

While on my errand of goodwill, I overheard the fella at the till next to me order two of the day's specials: one for him; one for his noisy rugrat. The total came to $5.11, and he stood there clutching a fiver.

A- (long sigh)"Only one then, please. I don't have any change."
C- (long, sad look at his pathetic father who doesn't have 11 cents)
B- "You just need 11 cents? Here, I've got change."

I produced 26 cents, which was the closest I could come for convenience. I passed it to the cashier. The forlorn expression on little C perked right up.

A- "Many thanks!"
B- "No problem. I'd hate to see someone go hungry over 11 cents."
A- "Thank you."

I turned away so that he and his child could have their moment of celebration together, and that's when I overheard him exercising the pride his newfound wealth had brought him.

A- (to the cashier) "Keep the change!"

I turned to look at him.

That was my fucking change. A man who didn't have a dime and a penny to rub together a moment ago is now flashing around my change and bestowing tips on the help. AT A FUCKING KFC! Who tips at a fast food joint anyway?

You can't take it with you, I suppose.

If I had have wrapped my boney little fingers around his throat like Devil B was telling me to do, His Majesty would have discovered that you can't take KFC Twisters with you, either.

Thar's Crooks in Them Thar Hills!

Sometimes life moves way too fast.

Like this evening, for example.
I was traveling westbound along the Gardiner in my little Smart Dilton, when I noticed some flashing police lights on the Queensway. What could this be? i wondered.

As I approached, my speed a slick 100km/h, I noticed someone pop out of a four door sedan (which had obviously been traveling down the wrong side of the Queensway) and make a mad dash down the hill towards the train tracks. In pursuit were the guys who get to push the buttons for all those flashing lights--our Boys in Blue!
It stopped being a footchase about the time our nere-do-well lost his footing on the steep embankment, and continued down the hill falling ass over tea kettle.
Our Thin Blue Line were much more surefooted, and avoided following the rogue driver's lead.
As I zoomed past, I could see our Boys dusting off the hooligan; the hooligan did not appear to know what went wrong.

Looking in my rearview mirror, I sighed. Nowadays, nobody has time for anything; not even a little rubbernecking.

A rose by any other name. . .

Ever since a guy was clubbed to death outside where I work, my Mum has been on edge. She doesn't like the idea of C and I (or anyone, for that matter) living in a city teeming with murderers.
So it wasn't helpful last night for a crazy lady (we'll call her 'A') with lipstick everywhere on her face but her lips to accost me while I was on the phone with M.

Now, I'm not entirely unfamiliar with Toronto's unconventional lipstick fashionistas, but some are so far ahead of the trends that they look just plain crazy.
I mean, if you're trying to get folks talking about, and WEARING, big red clown lips, lipstick-blushed cheeks, and lipstick forehead dots, don't get greedy and try to bring back slouchy leg warmers in mint green as well! Assume that great things take time, and perhaps approach change in stages. Build on the clown lips once they've established a following; ease folks in the the heavily-rouged cheeks and forehead bullseye--don't just dive right in and expect complete compliance!

I'm getting off topic. I'm no fashion maven, and should not make attempts on Star Jones' crown.

So. . . I'm on my phone with M back in Lucan, when our heavily rouged fashionista approaches me and sticks her paw out. I wasn't sure if I should: slap it and ask for a high fiver in return; check to see if she washed up for dinner (or just ran the tap--sneaky brat!); or tell the old palm reader joke we used to do at bowling when we were kids, wherein I take her hand, tell her I see a big house in her future with a pool in the backyard, then spit in the palm of her hand where the pool line would be--hilarious!!

B- "Can I help you?"
M- (on the line)"What's going on??"
B- "Just a crazy broad with lipstick all over her face, hold on. Can I help you? You want I high five?"
A- (shakes her head)
M- "Brad--where are you!?! Tell me where you are!!"
B- "I'm fine, Mum. Do you want some money? Because I'm not giving you any."
A- "Give me a fuckin' quarter!" M- "WHERE ARE YOU! ARE YOU NEAR WHERE YOU'RE GOING?!"
B- "I'm fine, Mum. I'm almost there. And you--not tonight."
A- "I just want a fuckin' quarter! That's cheaper than a whore!"
B- "You're correct; but I'm not looking for a whore tonight either."
M- "I HATE YOU GUYS LIVING IN TORONTO!"
A- "A FUCKIN' QUARTER! I'M CHEAPER THAN A WHORE, ASSHOLE!"
B- "Mum--calm down. I'm fine. And you--you need to learn a little bit about marketing yourself. Telling me that you're cheaper than a whore isn't necessarily a good thing."
A- "FUCK YOU! A FUCKING QUARTER!!"
M- "BRAD!!"
B- "Mum--I'm fine. YOU--no quarters for girls with bad manners, no matter how pretty their makeup is!"
A- "ASSHOLE! A FUCKING QUARTER!"
B- "Yes. Good night."
M- "You guys are moving home. That city is crazy."

And so it went.

One dead body, and an altercation where raised voices and cuss words were used, and my mother is terrified. She called me this morning to see if I made it home okay. I told her I had, but not before I encountered the cheapest whore in Toronto--ten cents!! She did not share my enthusiasm for this joke.
M knows, as all folks in small towns believe, that bad luck comes in threes. I'm about due for my third bout of bad luck.
The way I see it--my luck's picking up. I haven't had much to write about lately.

Helios sucks balls.

Have you ever thought that the setting Sun was chasing you?

It'd be a pretty scary thing, if you thought that it was actually happening to you, wouldn't it?

E and I saw a lady this evening on Queen West who was trapped in just such a pursuit. . . and she didn't take it lying down.
She hurled about as much abuse at the Sun as I'm sure it has ever received at the hands of one person. I realise the Sun is used to criticism; I mean, the Cancer Society has made it out to be this big Boogeyman over skin cancer, so the Sun is used to taking its licks--but this lady was being a total bitch!

F-this! And F-ing that! She was up one side of the Sun, and down the other. Dirty rotten piece of. . . she just wouldn't let it go. But the Sun kept coming.

Meanwhile, folks trying to make the left on to Queen from Portland were having trouble seeing around her: her invisible soap box--her final stand--was taking place directly in the middle of Portland.

She finally decided that gesturing with only one hand didn't seem to be getting her threaten messages across, so she set down her coffee. . . in the middle of Portland.

A car promptly ran over her coffee.

This did not improve the situation.

A lady in a red Mazda tried to talk some sense into her.

This did not improve the situation.

Secretly, E and I did not want the situation improved.
We were glad the coffee was flattened. We cheered when the red Mazda offered colloquial support.
But then dinner came--we looked away for only a second--and the crazy lady was gone!
Had the Sun scorched her to death?
There were no ashes.

I appeared the Sun had totally wussed-out and set without incident.
The Sun, as our Crazy Lady rightfully said, is a fucking pussy.

If I were the Sun, things would have gone down much differently.

God Bless Bon Scott!

This evening E and I were at the Epicure Cafe having a nice meal despite the fact that our favorite beer, Steam Whistle, is not on tap, when I had a sudden urge to pee.

While stationed at the urinal I had a choice of many things to read on the wall. My favorite was a "conversation" in which four people had taken part. It read:

God Bless America!

then someone had scratched out '. . . America' and edited the message so it read:

God Bless Canada!

then someone had scratched out '. . . Canada' and edited the message so it read:

God Bless Iraq!

and finally, someone had scratched out '. . . Iraq' and edited the message so it read:

God Bless Women In Leather Pants!

Which claim would you throw your blessings behind?
Perhaps you'd take up camp with Pope Benedict and scratch out '. . . Women in Leather Pants' and edit the message so it read:

God Bless Everyone. . . except those faggots, and the jihads, and people who wear condoms, and people who say 'aboot'!

You may as well just switch it back to "God Bless America!" and save yourself the embarrassment of spelling "faggot" with only one "g", as many amateur Conservatives do in downtown washroom graffiti.

Littlest Hobo movin' on to Heaven.

This morning my mother alerted me to the fact that a dead body was found outside Steam Whistle Brewery.
Then told my brother and I we had to move home because Toronto was too crazy.
This from a woman who lives in a town were "a few good Catholics" got together and murdered the Donnelly family in the middle of the night.

I would have preferred the sentence "The body of a dead man was found late last night. . ." read, and be repeated by newscasters as:
(from the Toronto Star) ". . . in the shadow of the Rogers Centre";
or,
(the Armchair Garbageman diplomatically suggested) ". . . at the base of the CN Tower".

I fielded endless enquiries from troubled, or nosey, customers calling to ask, "Hi Brad. . . hey, what's going on?"
I started saying:
"Molson-Coors Bohemian's shittiness killed him; Molson-Coors dumped him on our lawn to throw cops off their trail";
"Bavarian Purity Act requires the sacrifice of a 45 year old virgin";
and my favorite,
"He's just sleeping, sweetie!"
Folks didn't really cotton to my brand of current affairs-based humour. I bet if they saw the same light-headed kidding about a wayward corpse on "Air Farce" or "Train 48" they'd be repeating this gold at their water cooler!

The funniest part of this whole affair, if there is one, is that the brewery played host to a party last night where all the caterers were dressed up as RCMP officers. Red surge and all! To a casual observer, it would have been the most well-protected place around, save being locked up in the hoosegow.

Perhaps it isn't that funny after all.

Hit a doll, win a prize!

My beloved works in the classiest part of town. . . if by "classy" I mean "easiest to score crack and ass with ready cash". Where could this Utopia be?
Nowhere else but Sherbourne and Gerrard.

Today on her lunch break, she witnessed a crack whore in her natural habitat (cracked out of her gourd) slowly creep across the street. She paid no mind to the traffic desperately trying to anticipate her intoxicated weaving and darting, and blatantly ignored the red hand urgently flashing away at the corner. A jaywalker on a trip all her own.

A van responsible for getting plumbers from job to job screeched to a halt, and the occupant landed on the horn.
Our little crack whore didn't even flinch.
The horn continued, much in the fashion of Toronto drivers, long and unabated, until our tiny crack whore turned and placidly extended her middle digit to the blower.
As soon as she had staggered just past the centre line on Sherbourne, the van shot past her. As it did, the plumber inside threw a water bottle at the crack whore's head.

The water bottle found its mark.

The crack whore continued to the opposite sidewalk, turned around, and began her protest:
C- "ABCD 12(mumble)GH I got your number down, an' I'm gonna call the cops."
The van was gone.

I doubt they took her threat of prosecution seriously.

Having such deadeye aim must certainly mean this plumber's walls are covered in CNE Midway treasures such as: "Van Halen" and "Bon Jovi" mirrors; pink feathers attached to a roach clip in a semi-Aboriginal manner; Toronto SUN Girls 1992 Calendar (still in the wrapper); and a large Bart Simpson doll. Great talent never goes unrewarded.

Uncle Tom's Kegger

Today I was delivering beer to a yacht club.
I know--la dee dah--I've always wanted to be a lady who lunched.
Anyway, I was wrestling with two 50L kegs on the dock (they each weigh about the same as me, so working together they had me outclassed) and this voice from behind me says:

A- "Hey, Boss, can I give you a hand?"

I turned to find that a young black fella was where the voice was coming from.

Boss?

I was overjoyed to have the helping hand, but A kept calling me Boss the whole time.

A- "This handcart is broken, Boss."
A- "The weather shor' is nice, Boss."
A- "These kegs are heavy, Boss."

What the hell? Had I stepped into "Amos & Andy: Candid Camera!"?
I was starting to feel a little like Huckleberry Finn, but I didn't know how to say, "Hey, Midnight, ya' mind not callin' me Boss? I'm getting a little bit of white guilt over here."

I watched him work with the other guys from the kitchen, and he didn't call them Boss. He did most of the work, mind you--fucking slave drivers!--but he didn't call them Boss.

To me, Boss could be the dude that gets your ass fired, or the dude that rocks Jersey--I do not appear to be either in my torn vintage Corey Hart denim jacket. So I was left a little puzzled.

When I got back on shore, I heard the CBC report that Canadian Hate celebrity Wolfgang Droege--famed for trying to start a new GTA Klu Klux Klan Chapter in the 70's--had been shot dead in the Beach. How is it that my life manages to stay so topical all the time?

As a tailnote to the CBC link: what kind of shitty neighbourhood do you have to live in where police respond to "complaints of gunshots"? If people are only mildly put off by gunshots, do the police go back to planning their Ball? If people complain too much about gunshots, do they just roll their eyes and say, "Alright, Mrs. Fitzsimmons, alright. Where exactly did you hear the gunshots this time?" (in that condescending tone that some police have mastered when speaking to certain tax payers).

The King is Dead--Long Live the King!

My Juno-nominated roommate D and I were returning from the Little Chinatown market this afternoon casually discussing whether we should have rice or noodles (or even rice noodles) with our fresh vegetables and deep-fried soy triangles, when a man with very, very few teeth headed us off.

A- "Gottalight?"
D- "No."
B- "Yes."

I pulled out a book of matches in which my fiancee and I have designed personal tattoos for one another, and separated a match.

A- "Thhhhanks."
B- "No problem."

We got very close to one another--his breath was sweet with the smell of high octane beer--and he cupped his hands around mine to protect the flame. After much wobbling on his part, and compensating on mine, we were able to light his cigarette.

A- "Youknow. . . this little whore come up to me last night (unintelligible) Come'ere!"

He gestured me to get closer, and raised his hand in a conspiratorial way, shielding D from his comment.

A- "Tell me I'm better than Elvis. Say 'Yes'."
B- "Yes."
A- (pointing to D)"I've got a witness you said that!"
B- "It was my pleasure; and, you are."

. . . better than Elvis.

Even though I didn't hear him sing, or see him swivel his hips, I knew in my gut that he must be better than Elvis. I mean, Elvis has been dead for nearly 3 decades; A smelled like he'd only been dead a couple of months.

Dangerous Kinky Offender Spotted in Posh Riverdale!

My twin brother, C, and I were riding the Rocket last night on our way to a rock concert.
We were sitting quietly, absorbing all the goodness the TTC had to offer--soaking it up before Monday morning, when it'll all be gone--and enjoying each other's company.

We're close.

I noticed an old Asian fellow seated to C's right elbow. He was dressed in a brand new, brilliant yellow raincoat, making him hard to miss. But I had noticed, long before his raincoat, the pair of handcuffs clapped on to his right wrist. Both bracelets clasped firmly to the same wrist.

I nudged C to check it out.

He started to snicker.

Dude was either ready for some freaky, KINKY shit to go down--any time, any where--or had been arrested by a Newfie Police Officer.

N- "Shor', you'll be comin' wit me now. B'y Jasus! Where the feck did that ol'Asian feller go?! An' he got me 'cuffs as well!! The fecker!"

Cold War.

One sunny afternoon I was down in the Harbourfront waiting on a bar to open up. Although the sun was pumping out rays, the temperature was easily hovering around -25 degrees Celsius, so I sought cover in an antiques shop to warm up and waste some time.

In the back, on what I assume was an antique chesterfield, an older couple lounged in the late afternoon sunlight. The old gal jumped to her feet, and spoke at once. As soon as I heard her, I knew that she was showing me some trademark eastern European hospitality. "Welcome! Welcome!" and the likes.
I unwittingly made the mistake of opening up the conversation with one of the tried-and-true workhorses of shallow conversation: "Sure is a cold one out there today, eh?"

Everyone uses that line. It's a staple. Sometimes when I meet people I open with the pat answer to the 'cold enough?' question without ever having been asked--that's how often I hear it.
A- "Hello!"
B- "It certainly is!"
A- "Isn't it, though?"

As I found out, with Siberians the weather is never, ever, as cold as it once was back in the Motherland.

B- "Sure is a cold one out there today, eh?"
S- (from over on the chesterfield)"Bah. You don't know cold."
B- "Well. . .I grew up in the snow belt. Nothing ever seems colder than those mornings I spent waiting for the bus. Ha ha ha! It might have had somethin. . ."
S- "Bah. In Siberia, it is always dark. It is always cold. Canada--winters are warm."

Sure, sure, sure. And in Siberia you had to pull your brothers and sisters to a Gulag by dogsled, barefoot, while the KGB listened in on a bug via Sputnik. The Russians are a grim people sometimes.

S- "Look at this."

The old fella gestured limply at a large painting on the wall.
It was a dramatic grey-toned work depicting a boat smashed on a rocky reef, in the shadow of some menacing fjord. In the foreground, a Russian sailor was in his final death throes.
S- "That's Siberia. That's how cold it is."
B- "Yikes."
S- "You couldn't handle it. You are too weak; Canada is warm."

Can't argue that. I wasn't about to drive Dilton, my Smart, into the Harbour and see if I could match S's portrait of true Siberian suffering at the hands of Russia's Old Man Winter. I much prefer our pussy Canadian version of Old Man Winter.

Lesson learned: don't argue the cold with a Russian--they'll always trump you. Siberia. Leningrad. Stalingrad. Those dudes have seen some pretty seriously shitty winters.




. . . doesn't really mean they should get to whine about it for decades. I mean, I've done my fair share of shoveling, and you don't see me hammering myself on a cross.

um. Do the KGB still use Gulags?

Sign of Spring

Have your groundhog, Wiarton.

The Birders can take their robin red-breast and trumpet his praises until they are hoarse.

For me, and hopefully many others in the fine metropolitan city of Toronto, Ontario, the first true Sign of Spring is what I witnessed today: a midget on a full-sized bike. Summer, my friends, is nigh. Rejoice!

You'll never know how much I wanted a picture of that little fellow cruising along, thumbing his nose at gravity--but it wasn't to be.

I suppose like all signs of spring: people don't believe it until they see it for themselves. I could see fifty robins on my parents lawn in Lucan, and Mom wouldn't think spring was sprung until she saw one herself (like I'd LIE about seeing a robin to fool my mother into a "false" spring)!
Same goes for the first midget on a bike--you wouldn't want me to spoil it for you by having a picture.


My father believes that the first sign of spring is when London, ON vagabonds begin washing their socks in the Thames River.

You be the judge.

Public is on Notice: Your Ass is Ours!

Watch out.

That's all I can say.

I just joined a Smart Car Bulletin Board!
We're going to organise, and we're going to rule this city like the Civics were never able to do.

Think you're safe in the mall?

No way.

If someone holds the door for us, we'll roll up and down the Eaton's Centre concourse causin' shit.

Think you're safe in the heart of Yorkville?

No way.

Even if Cumberland is choked with cars (as it usually is) we'll take to the narrow sidewalks causin' shit.

Think you're safe on the 401 and the DVP?

No way.

We'll be all up in your rearview mirror, causin' shit. . . so long as you do not exceed 135kms/h.

Think you're safe at your momma's?

No way.

My posse will be there, spelling each other off, showing your mom something the Postman only whispered in her ear once, but was never cool enough to try. And we'll be parked sideways on your street in all the spots your VW Wagons won't fit in.

BA-zing, bitches!


Watch for us.
Everywhere.



Keep watching--I ain't frontin'.
We'll be all up in EVERYWHERE.

Cheap at Twice the Price!

Very few people will know this, but there is a place in Toronto that prices ceramic busts of Elvis at very competitive rates.
Or so they say.

I was on Parliament St. the other day, and happened across a joint that pedals all sorts of ceramic fare--ceramic greyhounds, ceramic Big Birds, ceramic Porky Pigs--but the ceramic token to rule them all is surely the Ceramic Elvis.
They carry Him to two very nice finishes: gold lamé; and 'living colour'.
I, being a dyed-in-the-wool Elvis fan (my mum hung a grinning, guitar-toting Elvis poster at the foot of my bed when I was young), felt immediately drawn to it. The only other person I have even known to own a gold lamé bust of Elvis Presley was our childhood babysitter H--it should be mentioned that she also, as a result of an unhealthy fascination with "Gone With The Wind", named her child 'Katie Scarlet'. This is not good company with which to align yourself.
Nevertheless, I wanted it.
My fiancée is nearly as big an Elvis fan as my mother--which means that come June I must buy 2 of Carlton Cards "Limited Edition" Singing Elvis Presley Christmas Ornaments--so, I'm in effect, investing in the future.

I enter this store. I price the bust of the King of Rock'n'Roll. It's &29.99. My inner voice cries "Horseshit!". I approach the till.

B- "Would you take $20.00 cash for a gold lamé?"
A- "No."
B- "No?"
A- "We have the cheapest price in city for Elvis. $29.99 is a good price. You will not find better."
B- "Cheapest in the city? You guys are actually in a price war with other ceramic Elvis bust distributors? I don't believe you."

But A stayed firm. She argued that $29.99 was indeed the cheapest price, and invited me to find cheaper. I, as a matter of fact, know where the Ceramic Elvis bust is the SAME price (Parliament & Gerrard) but didn't feel like really getting into it by splitting hairs. I mean, if I was feeling energetic, I would have suggested she move her prices to $29.98.
I was not.

The sad thing is, I still don't have a bust of the King in my procession. If anyone happens to know where such a bust may be bought for less than $29.98--count me in!
Now that the Pope is dead, I need something to guide me.

Trouble Rode In on a HUGE Ugly Horse.

After finally summoning the courage to relate a story my mum had sworn me to secrecy over (check out an earlier post about an axe-murdering father) I find this Pandora's Box of confidential tales too difficult to close again.

At the risk of making my dear friend cross with me, I must share what I feel is one of the most perfectly comic morality tales of all time. Move over Aristotle . . . there's a new flawed individual in town.

My friend C is an actor. The type that, unlike myself, works constantly. He works hard at his craft, and is very deserving of all his success. But the glaring light of celebrity can become hot--too hot for some.

You will no doubt see where this Aristotelean tragedy is headed early on in my re-telling. For the English scholars in the audience today, I will break my retelling of this tragic tale into sections under appropriate headings to illustrate the building storm.

Tragic Heroes are:

BORN INTO NOBILITY:

C is named after a great Persian King.


RESPONSIBLE FOR THEIR OWN FATE

C was cast in the CanStage Canadian Premiere production of "Take Me Out", which some folks may know is the story of a gay baseball player that contains several scenes of full frontal nudity played out in a shower.
That's right--this ain't your mother's "Punch & Judy" show.
He took the job.


DOOMED TO MAKE A SERIOUS ERROR IN JUDGEMENT

Knowing that the job called for him and not his trousers, as well as dealing with issues of homosexuality, C decided to discourage his parents from attending a performance. In pleading his case, C told his parents they would likely find the issues dealt with in the play uncomforatble; he did NOT tell them about the Free Willy aspect of the show.


ENDOWED WITH A TRAGIC FLAW

The production came and went--another success for C! And seemingly the perfect crime; his parents had not wised-up to the fact that he had been showering in front of packed houses at the Bluma, swinging around his inheritance, leaving an indelible mark on Canadian theatre history. C thought that indelible mark was the "Canadian Premiere", which is surely a remarkable accomplishment; however, it is not the indelible mark I will forever associate with the production.
The indelible mark to which I refer, was left on one fan's blog. The title subject for this man's blog entry: A Review of Penis Sizes in "Take Me Out".


Eventually, Tragic Heroes:


FALL FROM GREAT HEIGHTS OR HIGH ESTEEM

One night C's father and brother were out on the town having a few pints, talking about C's great success, and C's father, F, got nostalgic; a misty-eyed nostalgia that only drunk men experience, where all the love and emotion they bury so deep inside comes bubbling up to the surface. F decided to go and Google his beloved son's name. The first hit of his search was related to C's most recent show, "Take Me Out", and was entitled--yes--"A Review of Penis Sizes in 'Take Me Out'".
The following is what F read:

"C: Low-hanging balls with a nice tuft of public hair; cut; the most well-endowed of the entire cast; easily 4-5 inches flaccid."

Ba-zing!


REALIZE THEY HAVE MADE AN IRREVERSIBLE MISTAKE

That night, C noticed a message on his cell phone.
After his password was entered, and he hit 1 to listen to the 'New Message', he heard a familar voice.
It was F.

A rough transcript follows:
"C. It's F. [it should be noted that F used not "Dad", but his Christian name as an introduction] I think you might want to google your name and see what the gay men of Toronto are writing about you. If your relatives read this and find out that all you are is eye-candy for the faggots of Toronto, it will kill your mother."

End of message. To erase it, press 7; to save it, press 9.


FACES AND ACCEPTS DEATH WITH HONOR

Even though F's voiced sounded eerily placcid, the message was clear: I know what you did this winter, you dirty, dirty boy.
The message may have also revealed that C has a bigger slong than F; although, in the conversation that followed, the subject of penis size was not discussed.
If C knew about the penis size disparity, he would be guilty of hubris, which is another trademark characteristic of tragic heroes.

MEET A TRAGIC DEATH

C did not die--here we part ways with the Aristotelean structure of tragedy.
Unless, in an art film kind of way, his innocence died in the eyes of F.


FOR ALL TRAGIC HEROES THE AUDIENCE IS AFFECTED BY PITY and/or FEAR

That, I leave to you, Gentle Reader, and the comments function active on this blog.
I know that I, for one, will forevermore live by the following Golden Rule:

WHEN IN DOUBT, WHIP IT OUT. . .BUT DON'T FORGET TO GIVE DAD A SHOUT.

Young George Washington played by Jack Nicholson.

I have resisted the urge for far too long.

I'm going to tell you all a tale my mother wouldn't want you to know, because she's polite, and courteous, and respects the feelings of others.
Those atributes must have skipped a generation.

But this is a secret story, so keep your traps shut--Mum's literally the word, fuckers.

So Mumsey (M) works with this gal we'll call A. She's a real go-er, and continually keeps the town busy-bodies well stocked with fresh gossip to exchange over coffee or bridge. The sweetest gossip about her, however, had nothing to do with A boffing so-and-so's husband, or drinking too much and popping a squat on Main St., or going outside during winter without sensible shoes--oh no. In this tale A plays only the role of Innocence.

Thirty years ago when rubber met pavement, and the roar of a finely-tuned Harley filled the air, rubber did not make a vital connection elsewhere, and so A was born.
Nothing slows an easy rider down more than stopping to buy soft serve ice cream for some brat, or pulling over to throw a tit in some rug rat's mouth; so mom went one way, dad the other, and baby was left to be raised by grandma.
Classy people, eh?
Some time when A was a kid, her dad hooks up with some new old lady, then promptly murders her with an axe.

Yes. An axe.
And you know what murdering someone with an axe makes you--an AXE MURDERER.

Her father was an AXE MURDERER.
I bet you didn't even know such a thing truly existed, did you?

I didn't.

Neither did M's boss, M'sB, when he came in to work one morning chuckling away to himself.
What was so funny? Glad you asked.
M'sB had just read that some dude with the same last name as A, and who was an axe murderer jailed in Kingston, had just died.
"Someone related to you, A? Har har har!"

. . .and the 2004 Foot In Mouth Award goes to. . .

My mother won't admit it (because she's polite and considerate, you'll recall), but the look on her boss' face when A said "OMIGOD! OMIGOD! That's my DAD!!" must have been a classic.
What are the odds, eh?
Your dad's a convicted axe murderer--he dies--and you're the last one to find out.
And they way you find out is some clown you work with pulling a nudge-nudge wink-wink routine.
From Office Hero to Office Zero in five seconds flat. The thing that haunts me about this story is: that could have just as easily been me cramming foot.

The footnote of this story is (and I have it by good report from my mother and two childhood friends who have each done some light lifting at her home, if you follow me) she leaves the teevee on for her father. . .who now sits patiently in an urn on her kitchen table.

"Dad gets lonely."

His favorite show? Lumberjack Challenge on OLN.

i made that last bit up.

Sorry Mr. Jobs--"I'd Rather Have Jesus"

Today I purchased a brand spanking new Mac G4 iBook.

It's a thing of beauty.

With luck it will improve my blogging habits.
Realistically, it won't.

Lacking a mouse pad, I've turned to my RCA Victor Stereophonic recording of George Beverly Shea's "How Great Thou Art" (arranged by Ralph Carmichael!!). It seems to work out very well. The added benefit of having G. B. Shea condemning me with his eyes curbs my internet porn searches.
Please, if you happen to know that this record album is worth thousands of dollars DON'T TELL ME. I've been dragging a mouse across it all day, and have likely ruined its patina.





I had toyed with the idea of calling this entry:
"Give me Jesus, or Give Jesus Death!"

It's too close to Easter to be funny.
God will make my chocolate bunnies taste bitter.

Best. Job. Ever.

At some point in high school, I began thinking about what I wanted to be when I grew up.
As a young boy I had answered the question with the truth of the time: "I want to be a policeman!" I illustrated my desire with a stick B wearing a cop hat, shooting hyphens at a burglar who lay dead, x's where his eyes should be, in a pool of red. The sun, as he always did in my illustrations, had a big smile on his face as he looked down upon the carnage.

I received a "Good Job!" and a stamp of an elephant wearing a sailor's cap from my teacher for my effort.

High school led me to think that perhaps I was too much of a wuss for policing, and shouldn't it be a nicer life just pretending to a police officer in the movies and on teevee.
So actor it was.

I met a gentleman on Parliament St. the other day who chose a much different path from both the Young B and the Present B: he turned on and off the ignitions of a sheik's Mercedes Benz collection. All day. Every day.

To describe him, I can't avoid telling you that he had one proper arm, and one that was more like a chicken wing. That was not his key turning arm, thankfully, or heaven knows what he would have grown up to do!

The SmartCar, which I may or may not begin calling Dilton after Archie Comic mainstay Dilton Doiley (who was the smartest person I knew growing up) served as Matchmaker for this platonic meeting of two men with little to do. I was waiting for one of my beer customers to open her doors; he had a shipping tube which his chicken wing was flipping around like a baton--neither of us particularly busy.

The conversation grew so quickly from Smart-centric questions to "I worked for a sheik in Dubai who was so stupid!" that I don't even recall how he and I got in Dubai. But with an opener like that, I quickly forgot all about Dilton and threw myself headlong into the "Arabian Nights" tale unfolding before me.

"Every day I turned on each of the sheik's 160 Mercedes, let them run for 10 minutes, then turned them off. I had a stopwatch."
A was answering a question I suppose he saw in my eyes; more accurately, my eyes were saying "What the fuck!?" not "However did you know when the 10 minutes were up?"

"For this I was paid $100,000 American dollars! Which is very good money. But this sheik was so stupid. He was illiterate! He couldn't even write his own name! He could afford to pay me $100,000 American dollars, but he couldn't buy himself some sense!"

I was more happy at this moment than I had been all week! And it was THURSDAY! This man, A, was making my day a classic!

"He thought that I had caught the eye of one of his 20 wives--he had 20 wives! it's true!--and came to me one day. He told me, 'I know that you are trying to fuck one of my wives, and I want you to leave. Here is one million dollars. Go.' So I went. And it was not true that I was trying to (hand gesture roughly like that of throwing a jab in boxing) his wife; but he had so many wives that he couldn't fuck them all himself! He would fuck one for maybe one week, or two--a month if she was really hot--then leave her and marry another. He was so stupid! All these wives and he couldn't fuck them all!"

Such a waste! I swore, silently, that I would never marry so many wives that I could not sex them all up. The key would be to have a great personal organizer.

There was no stopping my new friend! How'd he leave Dubai with a million dollars?
"Taped to my body--that much money is heavy and hot to wear!" (I'm sure that I'll never know)

Were there any other jobs? Perhaps I could get a sweet job, too?
"He had twenty or thirty Phillipino servants, because they were small, and he fucked all of them too! Men and women! And he gave them a thousand dollars to keep them quiet."

I suggest passing on that job if you see it come up on Monster.com.

Was there a uniform?
"One day I took him to a market, because he wanted a new robe. We found this robe made from baby camel hair--the mother was killed, then the baby pulled out and skinned--and the sheik wanted this. He paid way too much for it; but he had no sense!"

How much is too much for a robe made from aborted camel baby fur, really?

I was heartbroken when the restaurant owner showed up, bringing an end to my deeply engrossing conversation with A about the "dumbest sheik in Dubai"; but all good things in life must come to an end.

Waving goodbye, I couldn't help wondering how someone gets to a point in their life when they get paid great money to do something so beautifully simple--something they love. . .
. . .then I took a nice long pull off my Steam Whistle, which I am obliged to have as part of my Sales duty (we like to call it 'rotating the stock') and thought about what to have off the menu.

Work work work.

Wanted: Cowboy for 'Village People' Tribute Band--NO POSERS!

There are a few specific types of people in the world that I would want to survive a nuclear holocaust.

A short list includes: people who dance like no one is watching; people who's glass is always half-full; people who do as they please; people who don't spend their lives up to the holocaust appologizing.

Those fit for extinction are: people that have desk calendars imploring them to "Dance like no one is watching!", "The glass is always half-full!", "If it feels good, DO IT!"; namby-pambies.

While my twin brother C and I were in Edmonton on business, we saw a man fit to repopulate the Earth after a cataclysmic event (and would likely enjoy the challenge of all that sexin').

The Sandman Hotel in Edmonton has a grotto of sorts, complete with an indoor pool, hot tub, and astro turfed picnic table area--a very relaxing and social atmosphere. The rooms of the Sandman overlook this grotto; some rooms even have patio doors opening on it.

At one in the morning, mountain time, there came a whoopin' and a hawlerin' from this grotto which C and I could not resist investigating. Earlier, there had been some teens enjoying booze at the picnic tables while a fella and his mother relaxed in the hot tub. By the sounds of it, the relaxing was officially over.

Peeking out from our second floor room, there below us was a rail thin, 60-something-year-old in tight Levi jeans and a huge, white, ten gallon hat. He hollered for everyone to stay exactly where they were--he'd be right back! For the deaf, his broad gestures communicated the same message, with the same enthusiasm.

C and I smacked our lips and poured a scotch.

Moments later, the Cowpoke returned to the pool deck (running) in nothing but his ten gallon, some tighty briefs in tastful navy, and a huge lit cigar. As if that wasn't a big enough statement, he put an exclaimation mark on it by dropping a perfect cannon ball into the hot tub. The son and mother didn't even see it coming.

The high-jinx he got up to befit a man one third his age--he was powered by what must have been enough booze to drop an ox, and an unchecked libido in full bloom. Finally, to conserve energy, he began floating in the pool like a corpse adrift.

Neither C or I saw what happened to his cigar.

As the evening began to wind up, thanks to some fat killjoy from the front desk who, at 2:30am came and, in a "Romper Room" voice said, 'Let's pretend that it's 5 to 10, okay? Five more minutes!', I made a mad sprint across our dark room to get my camera. Don't ask me why, but i desperately wanted to have a picture of this perfect specimen of 'homo parti animalus'; but the room was impossible to navigate!

Crashing around, grabbing at everything in the dark room like a drowning mariner, I hit the lightswitch. This, in turn, illuminated C pressed against the window wearing nothing more than his tighty navy briefs. He went into shock and, rather than take evasive action, stood perfectly still like a chameleon.

I am sad to report that, by the time I had camera in hand, it was already too late. The cowboy was gone.

Leaving only a girl with massive fake tits in a flimbsy white Hooters bikini, attempting to have sex with her "friend" in the pool.

damn it all.

With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility

The beauty of blogs is that anyone can do it.

"From A to B" is certainly an example of just some Johnny Canuck whiling away at the records of his day, never really attempting any high falootin' political discourse, or sharing anything too painful or profound. Mind you, one can find plenty of what my blog lacks at other blogs.
For instance, Mortgage talk!
Some folks just can't stop themselves once they get started writing about something they love, I guess.

In many ways "Nathan" has become a Mortgage guru to Googlers just as I have become the first, last, and only word on Shitzus. Humbling as it is to know that "From A to B" is such a gross disappointment to someone looking for help during their Shitzu-related crisis, I'm not nearly as active as the guy at Printinginfo in garnering hits. The 3 per week I get, after Shitzu-inflation is removed, is plenty.

incidentally, if you look at "Nathan"'s profile, you'll notice that he employs 5 other blogs to get the mortgage word out. Literally, just the word "mortgage", though he has tried to corner the market on "cancer", "insurance" and "Freddie Mac".
The power of blogging to the people!!