The Church Of A Swift Kick To The Knackers

      Christmas, and the long winter ahead, stirs memories of long past and longer forgotten. Memories of a better time, which really is nothing more than sugar plums and peppermint candy clouding the true reality of our lives. And our loss.  I remember though, how every pothole full of frozen water became a potential hockey rink. And after our parents checked out the safety of the venue, the thickness of the ice, and whether or not it was in the range of "Mom's call" for supper, our Montreal Forum, Chicago Stadium, or Maple Leaf Gardens (spit) would be cleared for occupation by the masses. Games beginning in the morning, running through to dark, only stopping for Mom's call, or the occasional pee in the bush.  Hours and hours of unsupervised play time. Days ending with rosy cheeks and frozen wet pant legs. Does this even happen anymore?     The following was a Twitter thread many years ago. I should clean it up and build it out, and I...

 OH MY A FIRE TRUCK!    I lived in the city so I know how sirens become background noise to life, and are easy to ignore. Out here in the country sirens are the cause of excitement, curiosity and fear.   This mornings siren, around 7:30, drifted into the house as a shock. "Honey, is that your phone?" "What?" "The siren. Is that on your phone?" "Not me!" I looked through the bedroom window and through the trees caught flashing lights heading north." "I better check this out."  Check it out because I worry. You worry. We all worry.  I threw on a pair of sweats and a hoodie, grabbed my keys and jumped in my truck. What I worry most of all this time of year are grass fires. A fast melt, and stiff breezes have dried ditches up to tinderbox status in places. I have a hard time understanding why anyone still smokes, but what really pisses me off is when they flick their butts out the window. (Cigarette butt. I should re-word the previous ...

 MAGA woman said get away ayy MAGA woman listen what I say ayy Fake blonde and frosted tips Struttin' around with your inflatable lips Coloured skin drives your pea brain wild just like the orange pig faced man child Now woman do your worst  We'll never be your 51st  (Guitar solo)

 Today I entered the third week of the curse I have named "A Virus Named Fred."  I haven't named my affliction because of friendliness or familiarity. I have named it Fred because Fred is a prick, and the name fits, in honor of all of the pricks named Fred in my past and present life.  The virus is a shape shifter.  It is like your alcoholic brother in law, who stays with you until the booze runs out, makes a blessed intention to leave, and then decides to come back and finish off the Lysol.  Just when you think he's gone, Fred is horking up on the area rug. Fred needs to leave. My patience is thinner than the hair on my head!   I have passed my sick time streaming serials from the 30s and 40s. Cheesy black and white crime and science fiction flicks, twelve or thirteen parts to each, made back in the day when a night out at the movies was a cartoon, a serial chapter, and the feature, instead of advertisements and CG kabooms. My current serial is Flash Gordo...

 There hasn't been much rain, but there has been enough to dampen the ground and the spirits of the district farmers, who have parked the combines and headed to to the coffee shops, taverns, and parts-stores for 'supplies'. They all may be complaining about the weather, how there is seven degrees of separation from harvest rain to Trudeau, but I am enjoying being able to open a window without the belching, burping, black diesel smoke, and the sickening fine dust of the machine driving past. Clean air and country silence. The way it's meant to be. I'm not saying that I want then to park the machines for the year. I know they have a job that needs to get done.  I'm just saying that it's nice that Mother Nature decided to give us all a break. "But my wheat's grade." "Suck it up. You'll survive Jethro." And he will. Because deep down he knows that it could be snow instead of rain.   Don't drink too much today, Jethro. The sun is g...

"SquashHulk angry!" "SquashHulk smash!" It's big, It's ugly, it's green. IT'S ANGRY! (I hope It's edible) That's a size 13 shoe beside.