19 December 2014

What I Found At the Very Back of the Mall Parking Lot This Christmas

Mall was busy as fuck again. Had drive to the very back of the parking lot, about a half mile from the mall itself, to find a place to leave my car. Downside of the Canadian dollar being back to its lowly self is more of my countrymen staying home to do their Christmas shopping. People like me who do their shopping in THEIR OWN FUCKING COUNTRY ALL THE FUCKING TIME ought to get some kind of loyalty discount.


Anyhow, when I get to the back of the mall parking lot there is a pig sitting there in his ghost car. It was pretty easy to see what he was doing. A sawmill worker can spot somebody fucking the dog a mile away.

I looked at the pig. The pig looked at me. I waited for him to fuck off before I got out of my car. Fucking pigs are shooting people all over the world for all kinds of bullshit reasons. Why give the motherfucker the option? They hardly ever shoot people sitting in their car waiting for them to fuck off. Crafty they are. Nobody knows more about how to get away with murder than the fucking police. He was probably pissed off at everybody doing their shopping in their own country. Now he had to find himself a new place to fuck the dog. Back to the empty parking lot out back of the empty 7,000 seat hockey arena I suppose.

We have far too many fucking cops in this country. Far too many cops doing far too much sweet nothing at all.

17 December 2014

The Middle of December

My dog runs in the dark
Circles around
Makes a pile

She then runs in the dark
Some more
Cars drive by

Then we go home
The Christmas lights are on
Smoke rises into the
Motherfucking nothingness

Inside Michael Buble is singing

16 December 2014

The Hounder of Hounds

The Hammer wanted out last night. 3:00 AM. There was a ruckus going down up the mountain a spell from the house. Wildlife on my mountain know how to party. Like fucking animals.

On such occasions as this the Hammer has a routine. First she runs towards the mountain like a bull towards a matador. Does not bark. Then she stops and picks up what information she could not pick up indoors on the wind and the wildlife telegraph.

Then she barks. Loud as Rude Norton on a Smiling Buddha Saturday night.

I know my dog pretty good so I know what she is thinking when she barks out back by herself in the night.

"I am the hounder of hounds. The killer of killers. Fuck you fuckers! I'll eat your balls for breakfast!"

15 December 2014

Christmas Update To Recipe For Instant Asshole

At my local Anarchist meeting today (come by the pub for lunch every 3rd Saturday of the month) we had a discussion about whether the time has come to update the popular recipe for Instant Asshole. This may not be the sort of shit your local Anarchist group discusses but it is just the sort of thing that comes up with some regularity at our table after about the second beer.

It was noted that people sure are not drinking as much as they used to before our party pooper provincial government lowered the boom on drivers who so much as think about having a drink before heading for home in their car. Someone suggested that maybe, in this one instance, a government had got a law right and did a service for the people instead of screwing them like usual. Less drunks on the road has to better than more, right?

Not so fast oh ye of little faith in the Anarchist path.

It was agreed by the time we ordered our 4th round that the law is keeping aunt Mae from having her second glass of wine with dinner before she drives home but (and it is a big but) it is not the aunt Maes of the world driving into shit when they are drunk. The people who drive into shit after they have been drinking are fucking alcoholics who drink (on average) one fuck of a lot more than two glasses of wine with dinner before getting behind the wheel of a car.

Fact is, it was further discussed, there are now so few people left drinking around here, especially at Christmas compared to Christmases past, it has gotten hard to explain the number of assholes we are surrounded by this time of year. Clearly something else was causing people to become assholes at Christmas besides the outdated excuse of booze.

The obvious answer was Christmas itself. After quite a lively discussion during which the Christian Anarchists in our group suggested some of us had our heads up our ass a little further than usual it was agreed that, this time of year at least, it is not alcohol that creates Instant Assholes, it is Christmas that does it to everybody.

Take a drive around your local mall's parking lot and I think you will agree whole heartedly.

It was further agreed to print up t-shirts that read in seasonally cheery print, INSTANT ASSHOLE - JUST ADD CHRISTMAS.  

14 December 2014

Christmas Greetings From Brian Goble's Phantom Zone

I ought to have included Wimpy's songwriting ability in the list of attributes, when of necessity, I noted his death the other day. It was, after all, his greatest creative attribute of many.

I was even thinking of one of his songs in the days before he died. The song, from DOA's under rated KISS tribute "Let's Wreck the Party," was "Trial By Media." The song had bubbled to the surface of my consciousness because of the ongoing trial by media presently prosecuting Bill Cosby. I do not know shit about Cosby but I know quite a lot about the media. The Fifth Estate, or what little remains of it, are the scum of the motherfucking Earth. They have no fucking business trying anybody in public these days. Perhaps it is a case of the lowest of the low thinking they have found somebody beneath their own maggot like existence to pester into the grave.

My favourite Wimpy song can be found on what I have long considered to be DOA's high water mark - "13 Flavours of Doom." No record collection should be without it. The song is "Phantom Zone" - easily the closest DOA ever got to emulating their forebears Black Sabbath. High praise from this old rock 'n' roll motherfucker.

Hail Satan!

12 December 2014

Death to the Sickoids (and Brian Goble)

Cannot fucking remember if Wimpy (aka Brian Goble) was there when the boys and I first got acquainted with the Dope City punk rock crowd. The spring of '79. A fine year for for getting fucked up - I recall that much.

Cannot remember the first time I saw the Subhumans. May have been when they supported The Avengers at a hall show a few months later on. The show sure must have been brilliant because I never passed up an opportunity to see the band after that. Even saw them in '99 when Chris Houston and Jon Doe briefly filled in for Useless and Mike and again when the band reformed with the help of Jon Card shortly after they released New Dark Age Parade. Got the t-shirts to prove it, motherfuckers.

The Subhumans put on better rock shows than anybody on Earth back in the days when punk rock used to scare the motherfucking shit out of the people who were not part of the action. They were all fucking great but Wimpy was simply on another level from everybody else and you have to be on another level to inspire people like he did.

Funny. Aggressive. Intelligent. Charming. Offensive. Anarchist. He was everything you could think of both good and bad about punk rockers in general.

Later, when I was doing volunteer radio three floors above the East End's mean streets, DOA came in to perform an acoustic version of "General Strike" which I recorded. Wimpy was the band's bass player by then, Dave Gregg and Joe strummed guitars, Dimwit whacked a set of bongos. It was fucking excellent.

Only Joe survives from that most classic configuration of DOA. I see him play every chance I get because those long hair motherfuckers from Trooper were right when they sang "We're here for a good time, not a long time."

I miss Wimpy, I miss them all and I am not in a fucking hurry to join them.

11 December 2014

On the Death of Jean Beliveau

Phoned my dad.

"Guess you're still sad?" I asked him once we had traded thoughts on the weather.

"Sad?" he asked back. "What the fuck for?"

"Jean Beliveau died. That's what the fuck for," I said as a fisherman casts a fly into sure waters.

"Fuck Jean Beliveau! Fuck his fucking hockey team! Fuck his fucking province and fuck his widow too! Beliveau! The fucking cocksucker!"

My dad never was a big fan of the Canadiens.

Me neither.

Fuck you Jean Beliveau! And fuck your pigfuck of a church too!  

5 December 2014

Unlikely News From A Manure Scented City

Lost amid the media hubbub about my province's recent municipal elections, nearly all of which concerned rat infested Dope City and its bloated even more rat infested suburban cousin across the river, was some good news from my manure scented city further up river from the Twin Rodent Cities.

We elected four women councillors. May have elected a woman mayor if one had run. My city is cast as a redneck bible thumping backwater shit heap but we have done what the equality seeking NDP have failed to do (albeit on a municipal level) in decades and done it without having an affirmative action formula imposed upon us to make it so: half our council has tits.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it big city motherfuckers.

30 November 2014

Rough Sex in Cold Canada

Outside the mall people are fucking freaking out.

"It's f-f-f-f-freezing out," they are saying to people rushing by them into the mall's warm womb.

It is like -5 Celsius.

The rest of Canada finds this uproariously funny.

"People from Dope City are such motherfucking pussies," they say between sips of bar rye and coke. Such statements are met with the same sort of universal agreement usually reserved for how bad the Leafs suck.

"Same motherfucking pussies the Canucks turn into come play-off time," someone who thinks they know more about hockey than Don Cherry will crack.

At least we do not beat our girlfriends silly and claim it is rough consensual sex.

No wonder Ottawa is raping us all the time. They think it is a consensual affair.

21 November 2014

Good and Bad of Shomi

My cable provider has gone and created a new vehicle to suck even more of the forest dollars out of my wallet than it already does. The new money sucker is called Shomi. I thought the word Shomi was somehow familiar but I had forgotten where I had heard it before so I looked it up. Turns out Shomi is the secret society headed in North America by Gregor Robertson whose sole mission is to turn us away from cars and towards bicycles so that we can spend more money watching television instead of wasting it on car ownership.


They really are. Such motherfuckers they are even offering Shomi free for a few months to get new customers hooked to its many offerings. I signed up. Like an idiot.

First thing I watched was "Green Street Hooligans." Could never bring myself to pay good money to watch the movie in the past. Heard it portrays the old Millwall firm in a bad light.

Turns out the Millwall boys do not look so bad in the film after all and the chief hooligan from the Westham firm dies in the end. Five fucking stars for that.