The Urban Refugee

Would I take a three year old to see 300? Maybe. What I can tell you is that not only is my five and a half year old a huge fan of CSI, she’s accurately guessed who the killer is several times now.

That’s the thing about raising a kid in farm country. By five they’re accustomed to cycles of life and death that their pussified city cousins are still being shielded from by their timorous, latte sipping parents well into their teens. If you can survive watching branding and all of the associated activities then CSI is nothing. Neither, I suspect, is 300.

Attention visiting bloggers: If you want to turn me off of your blog and send me elsewhere, here are some ideas for you…

1. Stick Google Ads everywhere.

2. Fill your front page with embedded YouTube videos instead of original content.

3. Regurgitate mainstream news items with your own boring commentary added.

4. “Go pro” (e.g. Steve Janke and Heather Armstrong - both whores now, IMO).

5. Confuse their/there/they’re and its/it’s. Learn fucking English already, okay?

As you were.

My wife is currently in Provost attending the funeral of a close relative who passed away this past week. I’m at home avoiding the whole affair as my present mental state is one of disrepair and enduring the crush of people at Kevin’s send off would only exacerbate matters. Watching my wife get ready to leave, however, caused me to consider what I’d like my own funeral to be like. When I kick the bucket, I would ask the following of my loved ones:

Jeans, t-shirts, hoodies, and sweatshirts only, please. Anyone brazen enough to show up at my funeral wearing formal attire is to be vigorously ejected.

People worry too much about speaking ill of the dead. I’m a slob, a crank, an asshat, and I’m about as graceful as a bull in a china shop when it comes to my interpersonal relations with others. Complaints about the idiosyncrasies of the deceased are expected and welcome.

As a goodly number of my friends are photographers, taking macro photographs of any flowers present is not only permitted, but encouraged.

I would be truly grateful if someone would crank up AC/DC’s “Highway To Hell” at some point during the services. Anything by The Headpins and The Scorpions would also be appreciated.

The funeral services should not be held by anyone holding any sort of rank in organized religion. Having spent the majority of my life eschewing those bloodsuckers I would hate to start my death off on the wrong foot by acknowledging them in any fashion.

For that matter, I would appreciate it if the funeral services could be held somewhere other than a church. I feel God when I’m out in the prairies with my cameras, but we’ve never bumped into each other in a place of worship.

If I die in the winter and there is a fair amount of snow on the ground, please feel free to take my casket (with me inside) for some rides down a snow-covered hill.

A hot dog roast instead of the “after funeral luncheon” would be cool. Combining that with my cremation would be really cool, but I’ll understand if that’s too much for some people.

Having high speed Internet access at the funeral via wireless would also be a good idea.

Finally, anyone who is as freaked out by funerals as I am is encouraged to stay home. I won’t be the least bit offended if someone doesn’t feel like coming.

I never got to know Kevin as well as I would have liked to (he was the fun fixture at our family gatherings), but from what I did know of him, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he felt pretty much the same way as I do about funerals. God speed, man.

I’ve struggled with the notion of “God” over the years. At first I called myself an athiest, but that was dishonest. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe — I did — it’s just that God and I weren’t on speaking terms for quite some time. That, and I’ve always had problems with authority. Here are my observations on spirituality after fifteen years of trying to come to terms with it.

You have to start somewhere

My spiritual awakening came in two steps. First, I accepted the idea that there could be such a thing as “God”. Next, I grudgingly came to accept the idea that I wasn’t it.

Burned out

I was wrestling with my faux atheism when someone suggested to me that I could sidestep my pride and participate in a certain 12 step program I belonged to by making an ordinary, every day object my Higher Power instead (e.g. a light bulb). I could continue to work The Steps in this fashion. That worked for several weeks until my “Higher Power” burned out (a light bulb as per my idiot sponsor’s suggestion).

Not the brightest idea I’ve ever had.

Believing in results

“Every time I step into a room with a bottle of booze, it kicks my ass.”

“Have you prayed to your Higher Power for help with avoiding it?”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“What will you lose from praying for help just once (aside from your pride)?”

“Nothing much, I guess.”

So I tried praying. And it worked. And my life has been fucked up (in a good way) ever since.

Leave the nitpicky stuff to the mechanics

My relationship with God is a lot like my relationship with my car. There’s all kinds of stuff going on under the hood of that thing, most of which baffles the shit out of me. All I need to worry about is performing the basic maintenance and the car will get me where I need to be most of the time.

Just like my car, I don’t need to become an expert on how God works for He/She/It to get to where I need to be.

Everything in moderation

When you’re 23 and trying to find people your age to hang with on a Saturday night without getting pissed that leaves you with Xtian Fundies, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and Mormons. If you want to actually have fun while hanging with your friends that really only leaves the Mormons. Sure they’re whacked, but at least they know how to party.

The bad news is that I never warmed to the idea that people with dark skin were marked by The Devil™, that gay people are abominations in the sight of The Lord, and that women are basically put on the earth to shoot as many kids out of their ass ends as they can before their ovaries shrivel up. The good news is that I understand all of the spiritual references in the Battlestar Galactica television series (both old and new) that fly over the heads of anyone who has never experienced The Church. That still doesn’t make up for having to wear the underwear or going for seven years without drinking coffee.

It’s time to cut back when your attempts towards a spiritual life start to feel like you’re running up the down escalator.

God really does work through the people around you

That’s the good news. The bad news is that The Devil™ (or whatever you want to call him/her/it) works through the people around you as well. Not surprisingly, most of them work as barristers or they hold positions in management.

And sometimes they’re your parents.

Don’t blame anything that these people do on God or you’ll wind up with the same fucked up relationship with God that I started out with.

You can choose your actions…

…but you can’t choose the consequences of your actions. The important thing — and this is important — is that you can ask for help in making the right decisions. Like those silent, mumbled under my breath prayers that have kept me away from the hooch for fifteen years.

Now if only I could get this to work for jelly-filled doughnuts.

—

That’s all I’ve got to say on this topic.

We went shopping at Wal-mart last Sunday. This wouldn’t be a big deal that’s worth announcing for most people, but there’s an hour and a half of driving between where we live and the store in question. That makes shopping there a big deal.

One of the first things we noticed upon entering Wal-mart was the presence of their new “self-service” checkouts. Jennifer and I both looked at each other and said, “nuh-uh”. We’re both believers in creating employment for others so, by God, we were going to stand in line and get served by a real cashier in the flesh.

We filled a cart with goodies, then stood in line behind one other customer with her cart already half unloaded and waited. And waited. And waited some more. We agonizingly watched the checkout girl slowly fumbling with each item trying to locate the UPC code…

Fumble fumble fumble.

Beep.

Fumble fumble drop. Fumble. Swipe.

Miss.

Swipe.

Miss.

Fumble mutter mutter mutter fumble.

Drop.

Beep.

“Hey, good shot on that one.”

And we watched her slowly check our purchases through. And we waited. And we watched some more while we were waiting. And we counted off the minutes while we were waiting (17 of them). And we found ourselves starting to glance longingly at the four unused self-service checkouts knowing damn well we could have been through one in under two minutes.

The next time we shop at Wal-mart I’m making a beeline for the self-service checkouts so I won’t have to be served by Wal-mart’s drooling answer to Terry Schiavo manning a cash register and wearing a fucking happy face button. I certainly won’t feel guilty about it because I’ve decided that some people deserve to be unemployed.

You know what? It wouldn’t surprise me a bit to find out that Wal-mart is intentionally hiring retards to steer customers into their new self-service options.

Now I know what cattle feel like when they’re being prodded down the chute.

January

The year began with a gastronomic tale of woe. I discovered an armor-plated eggroll that defied all attempts at incursion with a knife and fork. It nearly shot off my plate and hit my wife on the chest when I was trying to cut it.

February

We learn that the first rule of running a home business is that “if you’re home, you’re open”, and calls arrive at the most inopportune moments. This could be late on a Friday evening or early on Sunday morning. It’s almost enough to drive someone to drink.

Almost.

There was also unprecedented seismic activity for several nights throughout the month.

March

Casa McCormick rejoins the human race when we run a network cable to the RJ45 jack in our tumbleweed. There is much rejoicing as I no longer have to download updates for my customers’ machines on #@$&ing dialup. The snow that was AWOL all winter finally shows up and I discover that using a Bobcat is a damn sight better than shovelling by hand.

April

Several of my friends start calling me Leatherface for reasons that are unclear to me. It may have had something to do with the price of cattle. In the meantime I continue to uphold my reputation for being able to get every fucking vehicle I operate out here stuck in the mud. The events of the month leave me feeling somewhat blue.

May

The month begins with the observance of Layoff Day in the McCormick household. If I’m Leatherface, then Jason Vorhees is my neighbour. I spend some time rediscovering what leaves are as spring is in full swing. I also spend some time experimenting with the effects of gravity when combined with minimal friction.

June

Did I mention that NVIDIA sucks? Because they do. They really do.

July

We discover that the PC repair business grinds to a halt in July as the farmers are all busy in the field or on vacation. A trip to the Bodo Archaeological Dig results in photographic crotch sniffing, of a sort. Shooting gophers turns out to be a messy business. Jay Currie spends the month lusting over my dual displays. The S.A.W. gets some new shock absorbers and a new lease on life.

August

The cash shortage from a slow July becomes chronic and I find myself in violation of a previous declaration I had made about never working in a kitchen again unless I was the owner. Oooooops.

Working in the restaurant reminds me of a line from The Two Jakes: “Well, I’ll tell you, Jake. I knew a whore once. For the right amount of money, she’d piss in a guy’s face. But she wouldn’t shit on his chest. You see, that’s where she drew the line.” I came home many an evening feeling like I had spent my entire shift voiding my bowels for cash. So much for being a professionally trained saucier and pastry chef.

The remainder of the month was spent fighting a running battle with the terrorist dipshits at UPS. They finally delivered the items in question.

September

I decide that if Dooce can blog about her bodily functions then I can blog about my ass. Continued exposure to the restaurant causes further deterioration to my normally cheerful disposition. If it’s not the customers then it’s my co-workers. Crop circles are discovered by Provost, but they’re obviously not the real deal. I would have been able to hitch a ride if they were.

October

The gum/cud chewing leads to confusion between bovines and waitresses (I swear it was an honest mistake!). It turns out that herds of waitresses don’t wind up blocking the road.

November

I admit to liking large breasts. The S.A.W. (Starving Artist Wagon) finally expires from old age and is replaced by its spiritual successor, The Snarge Barge (said name being chosen over the objections of the wifey). I discover that parmesan cheese doesn’t go well with coffee.

December

The Canada Revenue Agency shows me some love. From now on my nightly prayers include the fervently expressed hope that the CRA will feel the love from Al Qaeda the next they throw a party in North America.

—

And that was it for 2006. Here’s hoping 2007 is less sucky.

I’ve always felt that women are like roads — the more curves they have the more fun they are to go for a ride on. At the very least a woman should be substantial. Y’know, something to grab on to. This probably explains my distrust of men who prefer to date the Ally McBeals of the world.

I’m convinced that men who chase flat-chested women are basically pedophiles. What they really want is to date a nine year old girl, but fearing arrest, they settle for the next best thing: an adult woman who looks like a nine year old. How much do you want to bet that Harrison Ford will drop Calista Flockheart the second her wrinkle cream stops working and the illusion is gone?

A man who will settle for anything less than a J-Lo sized booty is not one you want to leave your young daughter unattended around.

I’ve often thought that the body panels on cars and trucks should be made out of female nipples. No, seriously. Nipples can take pretty much any amount of abuse (nibbling, chewing, tweeking, squeezing, prolonged “doorbell ringing”, etc.) and still pop back into their original shape. So why not make cars out of ‘em?

Imagine this: You get into a fender bender (nipple rippler?) and put a goodly dent into the front of your car. All you’d need to do would be to rub and tweak the body panels a bit and all of the damage would pop right out again. Even better, on colder days, your car’s headlights would always be on. How cool would that be?

You can already buy nose bras for cars, so if cars were partly made out of nipples this would make a lot more sense. You could also call the guy who nearly ran into you a dumb boob and be entirely right. Face it, this whole “cars made out of nipples” concept just works.

So… How do I go about patenting the idea?

Does anyone know how much a Hooters franchise costs? Because I think I could make a go of one in this area.

I’m really hoping that Scott Brison wins the Liberal leadership contest and the next federal election as well. Because, once he’s PM, we can put his picture on the dollar bill. Let’s face it, QEII is getting a bit long in the tooth and we’re going to have a void to fill there sometime soon when she kicks the bucket. If Scotty gets elected and we replace her picture with his, we’ll still have a queen on the dollar bill.

It all feels right somehow.