2004/11/30
NEW FEATURE!
Hack Watch
Sorry curling fans - Hack Watch is not an ode to our beloved winter sport. No, the topic today is washed up journalists.
Motivated by the sad, strange story of ex-Free Press sports columnist Scott Taylor, who blazed up his 23-year career like a big fat doobie by recklessly cutting and pasting other people’s work into his column, I have decided to cast a critical eye on the other studs in the newspaper’s stable of alleged talent.
Today we focus on the other high-profile hack the readers have flocked to at the Winnipeg Free Press for over twenty years– none other than Gordon Sinclair Jr., long-time columnist and cringe-inducing sentimentalist. Gordo reached his apex in the late eighties with lengthy pieces on the tragic murder of an Aboriginal leader by a police officer.
That was his best work, fifteen years ago.
Since then he has been phoning it in, riding on his diminishing reputation as a premier investigative journalist and commentator. While lots of journalism school students dream of having their own column in a big city paper, at least if you go into accounting, the decline of your career isn’t witnessed by 300,000 people, three times a week.
Granted, it must be tough to stay relevant for twenty-plus years. But when it’s over, it’s over, and Gordo needs to acknowledge that fact.
Last week he delivered his take on the new downtown arena. Gordo went there to see The Tragically Hip, a band he admits he knows nothing about. So if he’s not a fan, let’s guess he got two comp tickets from the Music Editor and desperately needed some column fodder.
A piece about what the youth are listening to these days. Hmmmm, it just might work…
Gord’s first revelation – rock concert fans smoke The Pot, and lots of it. Gordo already knew this to be true, he says, but still he was appalled, indeed shocked! by how many Jokers, Smokers, and Midnight Tokers surrounded him...
Five people directly below were openly passing a joint. Right at an entrance, I remind you, where an usher or security person should have been.
But rarely appeared.
And it wasn't an isolated event.
Imagine a rock concert with an isolated pot smoking event. Stop laughing, I asked you to imagine it, okay? Oh, if you won't even try...
Even more disturbing for Gordo were the damn Spilly Talkers who sloshed beer onto his Members Only jacket, last worn while escorting his daughter to a Wham! concert in 1985…
The Pleasantly Inebriated as it were -- who were standing behind us, were dripping beer on us.
See how Gordo riffed on the band’s name there? The Pleasantly Inebriated, The Tragically Hip. You have to really know your craft to pull off something as clever as that…
Gordo suspected the Spilly Talkers were being overserved, so he put on his investigator hat and went looking for proof. He found none, so he decided to use an old hack’s trick, the Self-Serving, Fabricated Anecdote. A fiction presented as fact, designed purely to bolster both the argument and the virility of the hack.
Gordo conjures up a confrontation with a drunk concert-goer. We are asked to believe that they nearly came to blows, and the belligerent drunk walked away after being provoked and then intimidated by Our Man Gordo…
After he had wandered off, still shouting insults, I asked the bartender what "The Camouflage Kid" had been asking her for before he turned on me.
"A free shot," she said.
"He almost got one," I told her.
Oh, how pissy, er, pithy of you, Gordo. Did you you hike up the pants of your leisure suit and give a self-satisfied snort, a la Mr. Furley in Three's Company?
Or, did you put your cigarillo back in your mouth and get back on your horse? And did the young server, smitten by your bravery and sizable paunch, vault the bar and hop on the saddle so you could ride off into broom closet, er, sunset?
The column plods on interminably, with Gordo trying to wrench an apology (for what, exactly?) out of the arena’s general manager, Kevin Donnelly, a former concert manager with years of experience.
This is where the only revelation occurred – a public official just told it like it is, for once. Donnelly acknowledged the pot smoking, and demonstrated that Gordo’s concerns were much ado about nothing…
Donnelly said, "nothing I saw last night surprised me. You know, you get a crowd that is predetermined to come and behave in a certain way…"
Gordo, realizing that the only people who left the concert unhappy were him and the few fans dumb enough to get their pot seized, finally runs out of steam. This provides the usual sputtering finish to a sanctimonious Gordon Sinclair column…
While he's at it, (Donnelly) should remind himself and his staff of something else.
What MTS Centre shouldn't be.
It shouldn't be the only place in Winnipeg where smoking is permitted.
I give him credit for not finishing with What about the children? However, I hear the children are too busy smoking The Crack to have any time for The Pot. That’s the word on the street, anyway.
And so I ask, What about the potheads? Where will they go once Gordo’s dream of totalitarian rule finally takes hold? The privacy of underground crack dens? Stay tuned, Gordo will get to the bottom of this one, sometime in 2008.
NEXT TIME…
Slice of life columnist Lindor Reynolds bores me into alcoholism and drug abuse.
|
Hack Watch
Sorry curling fans - Hack Watch is not an ode to our beloved winter sport. No, the topic today is washed up journalists.
Motivated by the sad, strange story of ex-Free Press sports columnist Scott Taylor, who blazed up his 23-year career like a big fat doobie by recklessly cutting and pasting other people’s work into his column, I have decided to cast a critical eye on the other studs in the newspaper’s stable of alleged talent.
Today we focus on the other high-profile hack the readers have flocked to at the Winnipeg Free Press for over twenty years– none other than Gordon Sinclair Jr., long-time columnist and cringe-inducing sentimentalist. Gordo reached his apex in the late eighties with lengthy pieces on the tragic murder of an Aboriginal leader by a police officer.
That was his best work, fifteen years ago.
Since then he has been phoning it in, riding on his diminishing reputation as a premier investigative journalist and commentator. While lots of journalism school students dream of having their own column in a big city paper, at least if you go into accounting, the decline of your career isn’t witnessed by 300,000 people, three times a week.
Granted, it must be tough to stay relevant for twenty-plus years. But when it’s over, it’s over, and Gordo needs to acknowledge that fact.
Last week he delivered his take on the new downtown arena. Gordo went there to see The Tragically Hip, a band he admits he knows nothing about. So if he’s not a fan, let’s guess he got two comp tickets from the Music Editor and desperately needed some column fodder.
A piece about what the youth are listening to these days. Hmmmm, it just might work…
Gord’s first revelation – rock concert fans smoke The Pot, and lots of it. Gordo already knew this to be true, he says, but still he was appalled, indeed shocked! by how many Jokers, Smokers, and Midnight Tokers surrounded him...
Five people directly below were openly passing a joint. Right at an entrance, I remind you, where an usher or security person should have been.
But rarely appeared.
And it wasn't an isolated event.
Imagine a rock concert with an isolated pot smoking event. Stop laughing, I asked you to imagine it, okay? Oh, if you won't even try...
Even more disturbing for Gordo were the damn Spilly Talkers who sloshed beer onto his Members Only jacket, last worn while escorting his daughter to a Wham! concert in 1985…
The Pleasantly Inebriated as it were -- who were standing behind us, were dripping beer on us.
See how Gordo riffed on the band’s name there? The Pleasantly Inebriated, The Tragically Hip. You have to really know your craft to pull off something as clever as that…
Gordo suspected the Spilly Talkers were being overserved, so he put on his investigator hat and went looking for proof. He found none, so he decided to use an old hack’s trick, the Self-Serving, Fabricated Anecdote. A fiction presented as fact, designed purely to bolster both the argument and the virility of the hack.
Gordo conjures up a confrontation with a drunk concert-goer. We are asked to believe that they nearly came to blows, and the belligerent drunk walked away after being provoked and then intimidated by Our Man Gordo…
After he had wandered off, still shouting insults, I asked the bartender what "The Camouflage Kid" had been asking her for before he turned on me.
"A free shot," she said.
"He almost got one," I told her.
Oh, how pissy, er, pithy of you, Gordo. Did you you hike up the pants of your leisure suit and give a self-satisfied snort, a la Mr. Furley in Three's Company?
Or, did you put your cigarillo back in your mouth and get back on your horse? And did the young server, smitten by your bravery and sizable paunch, vault the bar and hop on the saddle so you could ride off into broom closet, er, sunset?
The column plods on interminably, with Gordo trying to wrench an apology (for what, exactly?) out of the arena’s general manager, Kevin Donnelly, a former concert manager with years of experience.
This is where the only revelation occurred – a public official just told it like it is, for once. Donnelly acknowledged the pot smoking, and demonstrated that Gordo’s concerns were much ado about nothing…
Donnelly said, "nothing I saw last night surprised me. You know, you get a crowd that is predetermined to come and behave in a certain way…"
Gordo, realizing that the only people who left the concert unhappy were him and the few fans dumb enough to get their pot seized, finally runs out of steam. This provides the usual sputtering finish to a sanctimonious Gordon Sinclair column…
While he's at it, (Donnelly) should remind himself and his staff of something else.
What MTS Centre shouldn't be.
It shouldn't be the only place in Winnipeg where smoking is permitted.
I give him credit for not finishing with What about the children? However, I hear the children are too busy smoking The Crack to have any time for The Pot. That’s the word on the street, anyway.
And so I ask, What about the potheads? Where will they go once Gordo’s dream of totalitarian rule finally takes hold? The privacy of underground crack dens? Stay tuned, Gordo will get to the bottom of this one, sometime in 2008.
NEXT TIME…
Slice of life columnist Lindor Reynolds bores me into alcoholism and drug abuse.
2004/11/23
More Clearance Items
My Inability To Create Is Your, Uh, Gain
We’re Through The Looking Glass People!
E-Mail Addresses Listed By Prospective Students On Their Advising Intake Sheet
brandyvixen76@---------.com
hotcookie16@-----------com
beachbum22@------net
aquatease84@--------.com
miscellaneousbob@---------------.com
wpgjetslover@--------.net
wetandnasty@---------.ca
ume6kids@---------.net
blingking87@-------------.com
shimmerandshine@--------------.com
dawgsofwar@--------.ca
* * *
Never trust a guy who calls them "titties". Don’t even sit next to him on the bus.
* * *
I'm Sure Bruce Willis Would Save Us, Too
I’m lacking perspective. For instance, I will use the term God help us all! in response to situations that may not justify that reaction.
I will say God help us all! if I find out my mother-in-law is coming over for dinner. But it would be more appropriate to say God help us all! if I learned my mother-in-law was coming over for dinner and that an asteroid was about to hit the Earth. That way, the imminent asteroid strike would sort of provide cover for me, you know?
* * *
CORRECTION
In the last edition, it was reported that beer sold at the new hockey arena costs $6.50. That price is only for large draft beer, served in an (allegedly) collectible plastic mug.
Otherwise, the cost of a beer at the new arena is only $5.00, more of a minor league price gouge, and definitely not enough to be called a Toronto Price Gouge (TPG).
Arena officials report they will implement a TPG in time for the 2005-2006 season.
Maladroit regrets the error.
* * *
Live Through This!
Maladroit has been in existence for nearly eight months, so it is time to change the name again. The creditors are circling like sharks, so it’s time to get out the metaphorical matches and gas cans.
I try to choose weblog mastheads that match my mood at the time. As you know (if you watch Entertainment Tonight), I have ended my relationship with Courtney Love, because I finally realized that when she hits me, it’s not because I’m stupid and useless. I learned I was not in fact lucky to be with her, and that somebody else could love me, despite Courtney’s assertions to the contrary. Now I know why Kurt blew his head off.
Since I’m now rebuilding my self-esteem, and coming out of that brutal depression, and drinking in moderation once again, it seems like I should choose something that lends itself to this newfound feeling of hope, one that envelops me like Kirstie Alley’s back fat.
Stay tuned.
* * *
Samurai Justice, Using Air Miles
So I was home on Saturday night, watching one of the DVDs from my documentary collection How Saskatchewan Became A Province. I was just entering hour five of Episode Eleven, you know the one where future Saskatchewan premier-to-be Edwin Blazenfuter pens his state of the territory address, and we see it re-created in real time, minute by minute a la Kiefer Sutherland in 24, only way more exciting, right?
This is when the DVD player suddenly died. The damn thing was not even a year old and it just went kaput. I was so mad, because I have this psychotic thing about home electronics. When our toaster with the patented Bread Brain technology burnt my bagel, I called it a retard and beat it with a hammer. But a DVD player was too much to bear. I had to get satisfaction.
I assumed the DVD player was made in Japan, and so it would be the Land of the Rising Sun, the entire nation, that would feel the cold-tempered steel of my justice. I could have written a letter of complaint, but this called for something more. Inspired by Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, I packed my bag for a long stay in the Orient, braced for months of martial arts and sword training under the careful of eye of a master, possibly that guy from The Karate Kid, or the guy holding the kick-ass samurai sword on those Japanese noodle packages at the grocery store. I know he’s not real, but he is an amalgam of many real samurai, as we all know.
Vengeance would not come easily, or quickly. I would start with the factory workers who built the DVD player I purchased. Then I would take on the floor supervisors, the plant manager, the administrative staff, the middle managers, the senior vice-presidents, the president, and then the board of directors for the larger corporation and all of its subsidiaries. I would then move the battle to all of the sub-contracting companies who provided the various parts to the main DVD player factory. They would receive a small measure of mercy, in that the workers would lose only their hands, not their lives. Burdened with many scalps and hearts and hands, I would carry them in a large ergonomic backpack, always lifting with my knees instead of my back, making frequent stops to properly and respectfully dispose of my trophies.
My work would have just begun. Next I would have dismantled the infrastructure of the entire Japanese electronics industry. In the resulting chaos I would have taken down the relevant portions of the Japanese government, including the ministers of industry, labor and trade and the prime minister. The Emperor would be spared my wrath, only because stable and monarchical leadership would be required in the aftermath of my rampage.
I would conclude by taking on Godzilla, on top of Mount Fuji. Arrangements would be made to broadcast the battle via pay-per-view. Rest assured that motherf---er would go down, and the Japanese spirit would be broken.
While waiting for my cab to the airport, I heard my wife and daughter in the basement, laughing. It roused me from my vengeance planning, and I went downstairs to see them watching Shrek on the DVD player, which was working just fine. It turned out there was a half-second power outage while I was watching my show. In the ensuing confusion, I forgot that my stereo receiver has to be turned back on in order to turn on the DVD player. There was nothing wrong with it.
Isn’t it funny how forgetting to do one little thing with your home electronics system could result in the wholesale slaughter of millions of noble and hardworking people? It’s a good thing I decided to go downstairs to check on my family. Otherwise I would have felt even sillier than the time I wiped out Denmark because of a crack in our fondue pot, which was actually caused by my mother! Plus, it wasn’t even made in Denmark! Oops! And, fondues aren't even Danish, they're like, Swedish or something. Damn!
|
My Inability To Create Is Your, Uh, Gain
We’re Through The Looking Glass People!
E-Mail Addresses Listed By Prospective Students On Their Advising Intake Sheet
brandyvixen76@---------.com
hotcookie16@-----------com
beachbum22@------net
aquatease84@--------.com
miscellaneousbob@---------------.com
wpgjetslover@--------.net
wetandnasty@---------.ca
ume6kids@---------.net
blingking87@-------------.com
shimmerandshine@--------------.com
dawgsofwar@--------.ca
* * *
Never trust a guy who calls them "titties". Don’t even sit next to him on the bus.
* * *
I'm Sure Bruce Willis Would Save Us, Too
I’m lacking perspective. For instance, I will use the term God help us all! in response to situations that may not justify that reaction.
I will say God help us all! if I find out my mother-in-law is coming over for dinner. But it would be more appropriate to say God help us all! if I learned my mother-in-law was coming over for dinner and that an asteroid was about to hit the Earth. That way, the imminent asteroid strike would sort of provide cover for me, you know?
* * *
CORRECTION
In the last edition, it was reported that beer sold at the new hockey arena costs $6.50. That price is only for large draft beer, served in an (allegedly) collectible plastic mug.
Otherwise, the cost of a beer at the new arena is only $5.00, more of a minor league price gouge, and definitely not enough to be called a Toronto Price Gouge (TPG).
Arena officials report they will implement a TPG in time for the 2005-2006 season.
Maladroit regrets the error.
* * *
Live Through This!
Maladroit has been in existence for nearly eight months, so it is time to change the name again. The creditors are circling like sharks, so it’s time to get out the metaphorical matches and gas cans.
I try to choose weblog mastheads that match my mood at the time. As you know (if you watch Entertainment Tonight), I have ended my relationship with Courtney Love, because I finally realized that when she hits me, it’s not because I’m stupid and useless. I learned I was not in fact lucky to be with her, and that somebody else could love me, despite Courtney’s assertions to the contrary. Now I know why Kurt blew his head off.
Since I’m now rebuilding my self-esteem, and coming out of that brutal depression, and drinking in moderation once again, it seems like I should choose something that lends itself to this newfound feeling of hope, one that envelops me like Kirstie Alley’s back fat.
Stay tuned.
* * *
Samurai Justice, Using Air Miles
So I was home on Saturday night, watching one of the DVDs from my documentary collection How Saskatchewan Became A Province. I was just entering hour five of Episode Eleven, you know the one where future Saskatchewan premier-to-be Edwin Blazenfuter pens his state of the territory address, and we see it re-created in real time, minute by minute a la Kiefer Sutherland in 24, only way more exciting, right?
This is when the DVD player suddenly died. The damn thing was not even a year old and it just went kaput. I was so mad, because I have this psychotic thing about home electronics. When our toaster with the patented Bread Brain technology burnt my bagel, I called it a retard and beat it with a hammer. But a DVD player was too much to bear. I had to get satisfaction.
I assumed the DVD player was made in Japan, and so it would be the Land of the Rising Sun, the entire nation, that would feel the cold-tempered steel of my justice. I could have written a letter of complaint, but this called for something more. Inspired by Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, I packed my bag for a long stay in the Orient, braced for months of martial arts and sword training under the careful of eye of a master, possibly that guy from The Karate Kid, or the guy holding the kick-ass samurai sword on those Japanese noodle packages at the grocery store. I know he’s not real, but he is an amalgam of many real samurai, as we all know.
Vengeance would not come easily, or quickly. I would start with the factory workers who built the DVD player I purchased. Then I would take on the floor supervisors, the plant manager, the administrative staff, the middle managers, the senior vice-presidents, the president, and then the board of directors for the larger corporation and all of its subsidiaries. I would then move the battle to all of the sub-contracting companies who provided the various parts to the main DVD player factory. They would receive a small measure of mercy, in that the workers would lose only their hands, not their lives. Burdened with many scalps and hearts and hands, I would carry them in a large ergonomic backpack, always lifting with my knees instead of my back, making frequent stops to properly and respectfully dispose of my trophies.
My work would have just begun. Next I would have dismantled the infrastructure of the entire Japanese electronics industry. In the resulting chaos I would have taken down the relevant portions of the Japanese government, including the ministers of industry, labor and trade and the prime minister. The Emperor would be spared my wrath, only because stable and monarchical leadership would be required in the aftermath of my rampage.
I would conclude by taking on Godzilla, on top of Mount Fuji. Arrangements would be made to broadcast the battle via pay-per-view. Rest assured that motherf---er would go down, and the Japanese spirit would be broken.
While waiting for my cab to the airport, I heard my wife and daughter in the basement, laughing. It roused me from my vengeance planning, and I went downstairs to see them watching Shrek on the DVD player, which was working just fine. It turned out there was a half-second power outage while I was watching my show. In the ensuing confusion, I forgot that my stereo receiver has to be turned back on in order to turn on the DVD player. There was nothing wrong with it.
Isn’t it funny how forgetting to do one little thing with your home electronics system could result in the wholesale slaughter of millions of noble and hardworking people? It’s a good thing I decided to go downstairs to check on my family. Otherwise I would have felt even sillier than the time I wiped out Denmark because of a crack in our fondue pot, which was actually caused by my mother! Plus, it wasn’t even made in Denmark! Oops! And, fondues aren't even Danish, they're like, Swedish or something. Damn!
2004/11/19
Remainders
Partial thoughts and incomplete ideas
Some people daydream about winning the lottery. I space out wondering what would happen if someone punched me really hard in the liver. I think about it so much I might have to ask someone to do it, just so I can get back to fantasizing about aging chanteuse Anne Murray.
Actual Headline From Today’s Parent Magazine, December 2004:
Fake The Glow
The tired mom’s guide to party prep
Aha! The truth is revealed – Christmas is all about what you can misrepresent…
Oh, I’m so glad you came over! And you brought your kids!
I was thinking of you when I bought this Hickory Farms cheese basket! Do you like it?
There’s something about this time of year, it’s so magical!
Tom and I are closer than ever! I don’t even remember our trial separation anymore!
I have not been drinking today!
I’m crying because I’m so happy, you silly guy! Now go back to the party, I’ll be there in a minute!
* * *
|
Partial thoughts and incomplete ideas
Today's edition is brought to you by rap impressarios Master Bling And His Diamond Rings. Pick up their new release, Frontin', in stores today!
La la la...Some people daydream about winning the lottery. I space out wondering what would happen if someone punched me really hard in the liver. I think about it so much I might have to ask someone to do it, just so I can get back to fantasizing about aging chanteuse Anne Murray.
* * *
Actual Headline From Today’s Parent Magazine, December 2004:
Fake The Glow
The tired mom’s guide to party prep
Aha! The truth is revealed – Christmas is all about what you can misrepresent…
Oh, I’m so glad you came over! And you brought your kids!
I was thinking of you when I bought this Hickory Farms cheese basket! Do you like it?
There’s something about this time of year, it’s so magical!
Tom and I are closer than ever! I don’t even remember our trial separation anymore!
I have not been drinking today!
I’m crying because I’m so happy, you silly guy! Now go back to the party, I’ll be there in a minute!
* * *
New arena opens, saves city
Winnipeggers happy to have good news for once
Downtown Winnipeg was given a reprieve from irrelevance this week as the city's new arena, the MTS Centre, opened to frothy reviews from local citizens.
"This place is wicked!" said Mitchell Cox, a 15 year old hockey player and chronic masturbator. "Whenever I'm not trying to lose my virginity, I'll definitely come down here to watch second-rate hockey and lame monster truck shows!"
Divorced shut-in Alice Strickland is glad to see some good news for once.
"It's so exciting to read about something other than murders in the core area, said Strickland, 67, who except for grocery shopping, had not left her apartment in the six months prior to the arena's grand opening. "I think we're all in agreement that this city has more to offer than just the drunken Aboriginals stabbing each other. That kind of nonsense harms our tourism industry."
A sell-out crowd of 15,015 attended the first-ever hockey game in the new arena. It is expected attendance numbers will remain high for as much as three weeks, before returning to the previous average of just under 6,000 fans per game.
"It will be so much better taking this place for granted, instead of that old ratty barn," said suburban soccer mom Annette Cruink, referring to the Winnipeg Arena. "Even when we stop coming to this one, and start complaining about how it never lived up to its exaggerated promise, at least we'll be able to say it's a beautiful white elephant."
Hockey fan Kevin Dolgin took note of the increased price for beer.
"It went from $4.50 in the old arena to $6.50 here," said Dolgin, who earns $6.75 per hour as a DJ in a strip club. "Finally we're in the big time, paying Toronto prices for beer, which proves we can get ripped off just as well as those fancy eastern types with their fancy cars and exquisite whores."
"We have turned the corner for downtown re-development, at least for the moment," said Mayor Sam Katz. "Once again, the city will stake its future on one project, thus avoiding the extra work and vision required for a comprehensive urban renewal plan. This arena buys us a year, easily, before downtown starts to suck again."
* * *
Retirement Gift
So we've got all these retirements coming up in our offices, and the department is over 90% female. It means there will be a lot of coffee and cake parties, Happy Retirement cards to sign, chipping in five bucks here and there for gifts, oohing and ahhing over the framed print of a puppy montage or a gift certificate to a spa.
Enough, I say. It might be my personal bias, but it seems trivial to commemorate all those years of hard work with inexpensive knick-knacks and dried-out baking.
I don't want to do coffee and cake anymore. It's not natural for me to eat a slice of Bunt cake and talk about bursitis flare-ups. So I have a better idea. Each time one of these "golden girls" retires, I'm going to rent a modestly-priced hotel room and chaffeur them over to it. Possibly the Super 8, maybe the Airliner Inn if I'm not flush with cash at the time.
And there in Room 316 or whatever, I'm going to give them the best gift of all: sweet lovemaking, from a lukewarm, young-ish pseudo-stud. There won't be anything unseemly or tawdry about it, unless they want it that way. I'm not adverse to special requests, since it's their day to shine. There will be flowers, romance, and even a few minutes of foreplay if needed. Recognizing their advanced age, I will have KY Jelly on hand if required. I've thought this through.
For ambiance, I'm providing a soundtrack as well. Lady In Red, We've Got Tonight (Who Needs Tomorrow), and as I quietly slip out, tip-toeing so as not to disturb their peaceful slumber, the Richard Marx gem Hold On To The Night will be playing softly, with the CD player on Repeat mode so it will be the first thing they hear in the morning, if the sounds of landing airplanes and garbage trucks doesn't rouse them first.
Hold on to the night,
Hold on to the memories,
Wish that I could give you more,
But that will be all...
Enough, I say. It might be my personal bias, but it seems trivial to commemorate all those years of hard work with inexpensive knick-knacks and dried-out baking.
I don't want to do coffee and cake anymore. It's not natural for me to eat a slice of Bunt cake and talk about bursitis flare-ups. So I have a better idea. Each time one of these "golden girls" retires, I'm going to rent a modestly-priced hotel room and chaffeur them over to it. Possibly the Super 8, maybe the Airliner Inn if I'm not flush with cash at the time.
And there in Room 316 or whatever, I'm going to give them the best gift of all: sweet lovemaking, from a lukewarm, young-ish pseudo-stud. There won't be anything unseemly or tawdry about it, unless they want it that way. I'm not adverse to special requests, since it's their day to shine. There will be flowers, romance, and even a few minutes of foreplay if needed. Recognizing their advanced age, I will have KY Jelly on hand if required. I've thought this through.
For ambiance, I'm providing a soundtrack as well. Lady In Red, We've Got Tonight (Who Needs Tomorrow), and as I quietly slip out, tip-toeing so as not to disturb their peaceful slumber, the Richard Marx gem Hold On To The Night will be playing softly, with the CD player on Repeat mode so it will be the first thing they hear in the morning, if the sounds of landing airplanes and garbage trucks doesn't rouse them first.
Hold on to the night,
Hold on to the memories,
Wish that I could give you more,
But that will be all...
2004/11/03
We’re Rich! Filthy Rich I Tell Ya!
Prime Minister’s Ticket Sole Winner of Illinois Powerball Lottery
OTTAWA (MNS) – “We don’t have to work another day our whole lives!”
Those excited words were spoken by Prime Minister Paul Martin three days ago as he waved the one and only winning ticket for the Illinois Powerball lottery’s massive jackpot, held last Saturday.
The jackpot totaled US$315 million, the third largest in American history. Converted to Canadian funds, the winnings totaled approximately $394 million.
With the aid of full-color overhead slides he created in PowerPoint on his own home computer, Martin showed Canadians the magnitude of their windfall.
“Nearly one hundred and thirty million dollars, for every man, woman, and child,” said Martin. “What great news for Canada’s youth, and for every Canadian who has ever wanted a Mercedes, and a chance to impress Shania Twain.” Cheers erupted among the gathered media. Reporters who had never before met spontaneously French-kissed one another, to the disgust of the female journalists in attendance.
“I have always been honest with Canadians, and I’m being honest now: I would have kept the jackpot for myself,” said Martin. “But since I bought it with money from my per diem while on a trade mission to Schaumburg, Illinois, federal rules require that I share it with all of you. Not quite the outcome I was hoping for, but one I can live with, for you see, I am already extremely wealthy.”
A hush fell over the room as a Financial Post reporter said “let me double-check your figures, Mr. Prime Minister” and pulled out his pocket calculator. Soon it became obvious that Martin had misplaced a few decimals points in his calculations – in fact, each Canadian would be getting a little less than thirteen dollars.
“Well, not even that much,” said the reporter. “After state and federal taxes, and with the exchange rate, it would total not quite eight dollars for each Canadian.”
“Uh, don’t forget to factor in the 20-year payment plan,” said a visibly depressed Martin, slumped in a chair.
“Really? You chose the 20-year payment plan? Who does that?” shrugged the reporter as he entered more figures. “So that’s 38 cents per year. When you factor in the cost of processing each payment, let’s see here…each Canadian is actually losing two dollars annually - from a $394 million lottery win!”
Murmurs spread across the room. Meanwhile, a few journalists administered an atomic wedgie to the Financial Post reporter.
“Did he have to be so quick with his calculator?” yelled one of the journalist-thugs. “Would it have been so hard to let Canadians have a good news story for just one day of the whole damn year? F---in’ math geek. Let’s get him!”
His words appeared to incite the assembled throng, so much that they descended upon the Financial Post reporter like a pack of hungry jackals. When the frenzy ended, the victim lay dead, his limbs severed and partially eaten, his bloody torso torn to shreds.
As aides hustled Martin out of the room, he was heard wailing “I can plausibly deny I was ever here... can’t I?”
The next day, once Martin and his Liberals had resigned after losing a non-confidence vote, Governor-General Adrienne Clarkson took the unusual step of assuming unilateral power, bequeathing herself the title Grand Empress of Canada. She then imposed martial law on the country, and collected the lottery winnings for herself.
Later that day, Grand Empress Clarkson, her philosopher-dork husband John Ralston Saul, her lover, and over one hundred civil servants flew to New York and boarded the Queen Mary II, bound for a six-month diplomatic mission to the wineries and beaches of southern France. In her absence, the Grand Empress appointed a deputy to oversee the armed forces, her china collection, and her two corgi dogs.
“Can you imagine? Born out of an accidental pregnancy on the Saskatchewan prairies, all the way to this!” said former hack reporter and uber-snob Pamela Wallin, swirling with her arms outstretched in the grand foyer of 24 Sussex Drive. “Wendy Mesley might be younger and prettier, but I’ve got all the power now! Oh yes! Oh yes I do!”
For the average Canadian, the sudden shift to totalitarian rule occurred with little notice, but for one significant change.
“Every channel on my TV is now CBC,” said stay-at-home mom Edna Benmurgui of Regina, Saskatchewan. “And all they show is reruns of crappy old Adrienne Clarkson interviews, interspersed with old episodes of Coronation Street. Where’s my damn Air Farce?”
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Prime Minister’s Ticket Sole Winner of Illinois Powerball Lottery
OTTAWA (MNS) – “We don’t have to work another day our whole lives!”
Those excited words were spoken by Prime Minister Paul Martin three days ago as he waved the one and only winning ticket for the Illinois Powerball lottery’s massive jackpot, held last Saturday.
The jackpot totaled US$315 million, the third largest in American history. Converted to Canadian funds, the winnings totaled approximately $394 million.
With the aid of full-color overhead slides he created in PowerPoint on his own home computer, Martin showed Canadians the magnitude of their windfall.
“Nearly one hundred and thirty million dollars, for every man, woman, and child,” said Martin. “What great news for Canada’s youth, and for every Canadian who has ever wanted a Mercedes, and a chance to impress Shania Twain.” Cheers erupted among the gathered media. Reporters who had never before met spontaneously French-kissed one another, to the disgust of the female journalists in attendance.
“I have always been honest with Canadians, and I’m being honest now: I would have kept the jackpot for myself,” said Martin. “But since I bought it with money from my per diem while on a trade mission to Schaumburg, Illinois, federal rules require that I share it with all of you. Not quite the outcome I was hoping for, but one I can live with, for you see, I am already extremely wealthy.”
A hush fell over the room as a Financial Post reporter said “let me double-check your figures, Mr. Prime Minister” and pulled out his pocket calculator. Soon it became obvious that Martin had misplaced a few decimals points in his calculations – in fact, each Canadian would be getting a little less than thirteen dollars.
“Well, not even that much,” said the reporter. “After state and federal taxes, and with the exchange rate, it would total not quite eight dollars for each Canadian.”
“Uh, don’t forget to factor in the 20-year payment plan,” said a visibly depressed Martin, slumped in a chair.
“Really? You chose the 20-year payment plan? Who does that?” shrugged the reporter as he entered more figures. “So that’s 38 cents per year. When you factor in the cost of processing each payment, let’s see here…each Canadian is actually losing two dollars annually - from a $394 million lottery win!”
Murmurs spread across the room. Meanwhile, a few journalists administered an atomic wedgie to the Financial Post reporter.
“Did he have to be so quick with his calculator?” yelled one of the journalist-thugs. “Would it have been so hard to let Canadians have a good news story for just one day of the whole damn year? F---in’ math geek. Let’s get him!”
His words appeared to incite the assembled throng, so much that they descended upon the Financial Post reporter like a pack of hungry jackals. When the frenzy ended, the victim lay dead, his limbs severed and partially eaten, his bloody torso torn to shreds.
As aides hustled Martin out of the room, he was heard wailing “I can plausibly deny I was ever here... can’t I?”
The next day, once Martin and his Liberals had resigned after losing a non-confidence vote, Governor-General Adrienne Clarkson took the unusual step of assuming unilateral power, bequeathing herself the title Grand Empress of Canada. She then imposed martial law on the country, and collected the lottery winnings for herself.
Later that day, Grand Empress Clarkson, her philosopher-dork husband John Ralston Saul, her lover, and over one hundred civil servants flew to New York and boarded the Queen Mary II, bound for a six-month diplomatic mission to the wineries and beaches of southern France. In her absence, the Grand Empress appointed a deputy to oversee the armed forces, her china collection, and her two corgi dogs.
“Can you imagine? Born out of an accidental pregnancy on the Saskatchewan prairies, all the way to this!” said former hack reporter and uber-snob Pamela Wallin, swirling with her arms outstretched in the grand foyer of 24 Sussex Drive. “Wendy Mesley might be younger and prettier, but I’ve got all the power now! Oh yes! Oh yes I do!”
For the average Canadian, the sudden shift to totalitarian rule occurred with little notice, but for one significant change.
“Every channel on my TV is now CBC,” said stay-at-home mom Edna Benmurgui of Regina, Saskatchewan. “And all they show is reruns of crappy old Adrienne Clarkson interviews, interspersed with old episodes of Coronation Street. Where’s my damn Air Farce?”
