Archive for July, 2007
In case you aren’t aware of “The Beaver”, it’s a Canadian historical magazine that recently conducted an online poll to determine who is considered by Canadians to be the Worst Canadian. Here is the link to “The Beaver”:
I Knew “The Beaver” And You Sir Are No “The Beaver”
And here is a link or two to some relevant bumfphgh:
The Other Canadian Historical Beaver
Ron MacLean! Ron MacLean!
Alas, according to “The PartyPoopers”, mischief was made of the online poll and now SOME people are saying it was “unscientific” (see above) while OTHER people are so suspiciously happy with the results one can’t help wondering if they voted twice:
Mommy? What’s A Gagortion?
And, for added hilarity:
Well, far be it from me to question the results of an online poll to determine just who is Canada’s worst Canadian, which are as follows:
1. Truedope (the man who ruined Canada by letting the rest of the world know we were here)
2. Some Punk (yeah, yeah – the Queen, fuckin’ hate, and so on and so forth and more of the same etc etc all over again)
3. St. Henry Morgenthaler of Abortions (why anti-choicers hate St. Henry so much I’ll never know)
4. Brian Mulroney (yeah, okay)
5. The Bernardos (ew and ewer, but yeah – not as bad as Mulroney, I guess)
6. Leader of the New Conservative Government of Canada (well sure, he’s fat, but Geez Louise – Clifford Olsen’s fatter)
7. Our Petite Scarecrow, Celine Dion (at least she can sing, ya dumb mooks)
8. The Old Monster
9. Clifford Olsen (annoying and fatter’n Stephen Harper serial killer)
10. Connie Con Conrad (Black with a Capital B)
Reaction was swift:
I Hate the Fuckin’ Queen to Infinity Squared!
So. Yeah. Online polls. But google “The Beaver – Worst Canadian Online Poll”. Every news outlet has covered this story as if it is one. It’s hilarious. The CBC, CTV, CanWest, Reuters – all are on the bandwagon in one way or another, actually calling the online poll “unscientific”.
Oh. Really? An online poll asking Internutters to vote for who they think is Canada’s Worst Canadian and I wasn’t even aware of it in spite of my ginormous Internet reputation as an authority on pretty much everything? Unscientific? Since when?
Why, of course it’s scientific. “The Beaver” is a legitimate historical magazine with a Board of Directors AND a staff:
Chairman of the Bored
History Is Fun
However, for the record, if I’d known there was a Canadian historical magazine called “The Beaver” conducting an online poll to determine who is Canada’s worst Canadian, I would have voted and maybe, just maybe, that preachy four-eyes from the Prairies would have won and it would have been even scientificker.
This is what I did yesterday:
At about 3:30, this guy I know and my good self got a ride to the bus station from my British/American co-worker where we bought a couple of return tickets to Montreal. At 4:00 we were on our way to see “The Police”.
Cool, eh? And we’re just, like, normal/average/ordinary/everyday superwits, too.
The bus ride was relaxing enough at first, although my strategy of sitting not near babies soon failed when the baby parents relocated near us. Gawd. Babies. There otta be a law that once you’ve had yours nobody else can have any. I mean, really – how many more babies do we need? They’re just going to grow up and you never know which one will be a Hitler or a Ted Bundy or even a Stephen Harper.
Quit while you’re ahead, everybody else!
Fortunately, the trip from Ottawa to Montreal is only 2 hours and I was able to drown out the baby conversation (they weren’t really all babies, they were one baby and a handful of toddlers, but the baby kept saying to one of the toddlers, “You’re a baby”, so the toddler felt COMPELLED to say back, “No – YOU’RE a baby, I’m not a baby”, until the Dad of the toddler tried to help out, “She’s just calling YOU a baby because SHE’S a baby”, so the baby said, “No, I’m not”) with plenty of scintillating discourse on a myriad of topics ranging through me and on to myself and finally over to I.
I’m kidding, eh. I never talk about myself in real life.
Anyway, we got to Montreal, all psyched for “The Police” (a band I have no knowledge of whatsoever and one which I would never in a million years have gone to see were it not for this guy I know and his friend who crapped out on him at the last minute so that he was cornered into tapping last resort me who is always up for whatever now that I’m footloose and fancy free – NOT!) and caught a cab to the Bell Center (Centre Bell).
Once there, I started to worry a bit because the last concert I went to was “Dire Straits” at Varsity Stadium in Toronto in the early 80s. I almost went to a Madonna concert in 1990, but I was pregnant at the time and it was at SkyDome and I just couldn’t risk going into premature labour (a couple of months later I wouldn’t risk taking an aspirin for labour pain because in spite of several months of pre-natal classes I was afraid I might SLEEP THROUGH LABOUR!!!). So, although I hadn’t given it much thought until I saw the crowd and the size of the venue, I was starting to remember why the last and only concert I’d been to had been the “Dire Straits”.
So, to avoid stress, I led the guy to a Tim Horton’s across the street from the Bell Center (Centre Bell) and we picked up sandwiches and tea. Then we headed over to a park to sit under a tree and have our little picnic before heading inside for the show. While we sat there, I noticed two men smoking a cigar, down the hill from where we were perched, and closer to the sidewalk action. They were wearing semi-tough tee-shirts, black with heavy metal-type stuff on them, identical khaki shorts with pleats and pockets, and the tell-tale glasses that only cops wear.
“Narcs”, I said to my fellow picnicker.
“Yeah”, he laughed. “The almost, but not quite, identical outfits are a dead giveaway. It’s like they can’t help but wear a uniform of some kind when they’re on the job.”
“Well, let’s cross over to the other side of the park to spark up this doobie”. And I pulled a tiny little tightly rolled joint out of my bi-focals case (I was wearing my contacts because I am so much unbelievably better looking in my contacts, which are single-vision, that’s it’s totally worth not being able to see properly to be seen WITHOUT my bi-focals wrecking all my chances with rock superstars – but I always bring my glasses along in my knapsack JUST IN CASE!!! of a sleepover or somesuch possibility).
So, feeling cooler’n bitchin’ we strolled across the park, sparked up the doobie, had a few tokes (two is my limit or I get that heart thing that feels a bit like grasshoppers in your aorta valve) and, not wanting to take it indoors (where No Smoking is allowed, anyways), we left it on a monument for the taking by loitering teens in the park.
Oh my, what a great idea that was, to be just a little high headed off to see “The Police” in, well, quite frankly – skanky ol’ Montreal (if you ask me, anyways – I mean, how many titty bars does one town need before you’re pretty much drunken hard-on splooge town).
I panicked a bit, just a tad, at the door when I thought they were going to go through my little pink knapsack with gold embroidery on it and I’d end up strip-searched and left to die of starvation and cold in some Montreal prison by the Surete du Quebec, but then I remembered we’d dropped the joint on one of those dead French guy memorials. And they didn’t look to be searching anybody’s knapsack, anyways, which, although a tad insulting when I thought about it later, was a relief at the time.
Being a little high, we concentrated all our efforts on finding our seats (first balcony, front row) and once seated, being a little high, never moved until the concert ended some 3 1/2 hours later.
Sting’s son opened for “The Police”. The show started right on the dot at 7:30, his rich kid garage band played for 1/2 hour (they were pretty good, but once I’d mentally slapped that “rich kid garage band” label on them, it was hard to get too into their set – all I could think about was how jealous all the non-rich kid garage bands would be of their equipment, connections, and state-of-the-art production studios) and then, about fifteen minutes later “The Police” took a sprightly run onto the stage and started up.
It was all so professional and courteous, by gum, it was one of the most pleasant experiences of my life. Not awe-inspiring or life-altering, as the guy I went with noted on our walk home from the Ottawa bus station (we caught the last bus from Montreal to Ottawa – “The Midnighter”, we call it) – but fun. I’d say “hip”, but I don’t want to date myself. And who knew I liked reggae? Not me. But I do. The mellow groove suits me to a tee and while it’s a dancey beat, you can do it in your seat. I don’t really like the pressure anymore of feeling like I’ve gotta stand up and dance, I was happier just groovin’ in my seat in the front row, first balcony.
Oh, and Sting? Well, I’d say he gives hope to all kids who start out looking like Malcolm McDowell, that’s for sure, because apparently, whether you start out looking like Malcolm McDowell or Gordon Summer you’ll eventually end up looking like Sting. As in, very good. I just don’t know if I was Andy Sumner or the drummer if I’d want to be sharing a great big screen with him at a concert.
Standing beside a superstar rock god can make you look pretty mortal. Luckily, I was wearing my contacts and a super hot see-thru number with built in boobs so when I made eye contact with him on the big screen, he flinched a bit at my awesomeness, although not enough to throw him off his game.
Every breath you take…
Black Hawks Down
Okay, okay. If it makes all you Canadian Conrad Black supporters in the media feel any better, We The People are not gloating because Conrad Black, the individual, was convicted of fraud, etc. We’re gloating because your Neo-Con guru and the ideological inspiration behind a new and awful partisan media in which most of you are still employed was convicted of fraud, etc. The fact that it was by an American jury (and sorry, eh – but we KNOW how much you just lurve EVERYTHING American because you keep TELLING us over and over and over that AMERICANS are WAY better’n Canadians) makes it that much sweeter’n if it was just by a plain old Canuckistani jury. It’s beauty for us that your Great Leader has been completely discredited by the very system he trumpeted because it denudes you all so completely and makes you look like the utter tools you are.
It’s YOU we’re gloating about, not Conrad Black.
Okay. Call me crazy, but last night I got to thinking about Monica Lewinsky and Bill Clinton and “all that” and here’s what happened – a ginormous cerebral fizzphrap:
Monica Lewinsky – Victim? Or calculating perpetrator of the greatest political “Gotcha!” in the 21st century?
Eh? Eh? Because my companion and I were discussing government and media and whether or not there was even a need for the “and” between government and media and one thing led to another and we got to discussing Harlem and whether or not Harlem was ever really Harlem or if Harlem was just a media invention and safer’n Toronto with blacks and whites living side by side and then I mentioned that Bill Clinton had an office in Harlem now and we got to joking about Bill Clinton getting away with just a couple of affairs when it’s pretty obvious there were probably millions of women who blew him over the years (there are probably at least five women blowing him right now) and then it came to me, just like that – Monica Lewinsky set up Bill Clinton for the fall of a lifetime.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think that’s what she set out to do, I just think that’s what she ended up doing when she realized she’d been casually tossed aside by, well, a sexualpath or whatever men like Bill Clinton would be called if we gave “path” names to men who have sex with women the way the rest of us… uh… don’t.
And I like Monica Lewinsky, I do. I admire how she was able to suck up the aspersions cast on her character (as if a 21 year old intern having sex with a politician was the equivalent of Eve giving Adam that apple God kept going on and on about in the Garden of Eden like some big ol’ cocktease, “Whatever you do, Eve, don’t tempt Adam with a nice big juicy red apple from the Forbidden Tree of Knowledge or he’ll like you better’n me and THEN you’ll be sorry”) and go on to parlay the whole romp into a kitschy business (me and kitsch go together like green eggs and ham, I’m telling you) of berets and handbags and Tom Green.
Not to mention the overlooked fact that she gave hope to sister and brother interns everywhere that all those “roadies” might not be in vain and that one day they, too, might get to blow the “lead singer”.
But last night, as I cast my mind back, I thought, “Hm… she said many times that she was a fat girl from Beverly Hills…” and I realized – a fat girl from Beverly Hills probably has to use every bit of chutzpah she can lay her chubby fingers on and it wouldn’t take a neuropath to figure out that no one woman meant very much to Bill Clinton and that she’d fallen for his empathy schtick like a sack of wet socks. (Ah similes…)
So, she did what any spurned 21 year old fat girl intern from Beverly Hills who’d blown her way into the Oval Office would do – she told Linda Tripp EVERYTHING.
Because that was always the rub for me. Why Linda Tripp? I mean, she’d kept BLOWING THE PRESIDENT!!! secret for more than 24 hours and for some reason decides to – later – much later – confide in Linda Tripp?
Uh unh. It don’t add up is what I’m sayin’. Monica Lewinsky used Linda Tripp, not the other way around. She told Linda Tripp all she needed to hear to get the word out and pretty much take whatever shine off Bill Clinton that she could.
Take that, asshole. Nobody messes with a fat girl from Beverly Hills who made it all the way into the Oval Office to blow the President of the United States.
Anyway, that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it because that’s just the kind of blogger I am. Feel free to pass it along. Because that’s also the kind of blogger I am.
Oh – and my companion, who is always t’inkin’ – just like me – said, “Yabbut, it’s not like she came out of it set for life, or anything”.
“But that wasn’t what she was after”, I countered. “She wanted revenge. Revenge is sweet. Money? Her Dad’s a doctor or something. In Beverly Hills. She doesn’t need money. She’d worked her way up the food chain, blown the President and after giving it some thought decided it was only worth it if the whole world knew about it.”
And that, Dear Reader, is something EVERY blogger understands.
Stephane Dion thought Arthur Lee was the first Chinese Member of Parliament in 1974 when it turns out it was Douglas Jung in 1957!
And Steve Janke thinks Stephane Dion was screwed up on the facts because Douglas Jung was a Progressive Conservative – and not because Douglas Jung was Chinese!
Liberals and Conservatives are so funny!