The Lost Conversation

As Jesus was hanging on the cross he had a couple conversations before he died. Most made it into record, but one was forgotten. Now for the first time in history I reveal to you the lost conversation he had.

An American tourist happened to be walking by (while visiting Jerusalem) and stopped to ask Jesus a few questions before Mary got there. Now, I’m no history buff, and I am certainly not a magic/religion scholar, but I believe this may be important to some people out there…

(Jesus is on his cross, in between 2 criminals, pissing and moaning)

JESUS- “God, it hurts! Why Father?! Why? I mean, I knew it was coming, but it still sucks! It Sucks father!”

(Howard Peters, with a camera around his neck stumbles away from his tour group and up to the cross)

JESUS- “Hey there! Yes, you with the camera! I need you to do me a favour”.

(With his mouth wide open, Howard looked up at Jesus and pointed at himself)

JESUS- “Yes! It’s the year 33! Do you see anyone else with a camera?”

(With his mouth still wide open, Howard looked around and didn’t see anyone else with a camera)

HOWARD- “Nope”.

JESUS- “Brilliant. Can you reach into my pocket, pull out my cigarettes and light me one?”

(Howard hesitates, then pulls out a smoke from Jesus’ cotton rag bottom, lights it and puts it in Jesus’ mouth with a reaching claw. Like the ones you see fat lady‘s with in Walmart)

(Jesus takes a long haul and closes his eyes. He smiles as though he‘s already in heaven)

JESUS- “Flavour country. Thanks pal”.

HOWARD- “No problem. Are you a criminal or something?”

JESUS- “Nope. These assholes dying beside me are. I am just fulfilling my destiny”.

(Jesus spits his cigarette out, looks up at the sky and starts laughing, presumably because his story sounds as dumb to him as it does to me)

(Howard starts laughing too)

HOWARD- “I have a cousin named Destiny. Do you think I could get a picture of you dying for my Facebook albums?”

And Jesus went on to die for that retard Howard’s sins. Or something like that.

The End

Fear and Loathing at SARSstock (A harrowing tale)

In 2003, a shitty Asian respiratory illness descended on Toronto, brought back by individuals travelling from China. It drove the city into a panic, hospital employees went on quarantine for days, sleeping on hospital floors away from their families and fear spread far and fast. A few people ended up dying and it sent Toronto's tourism industry into the toilet, the press coverage was extensive to say the least. Even though SARS was controlled and dealt with in a matter of a week, people weren't coming back to Toronto. The damage had been done. So in an effort to kick start tourism in the ass, a massive concert was planned for Downsview Park.

An old airbase/airport on the edges of the city's northern reaches. The Stones, AC/DC, Rush and about 30 other bands signed on for free, and the city sold roughly 500,000 tickets at about $30 a pop. It was on, people from all over set out for Toronto and being 17, I was no different. Love, Limos, Asian hookers, Crack, Rock n Roll and a Howard Johnson. This is my story...

I had heard about it like everybody else. The concert of the millennium. The Stones, The Guess Who, Rush, AC/DC. Everybody was talking about it, Toronto was only 2 hours away. Everybody was going. Everybody but me.

At the time, I was living with my old man. He made it very clear that I would not be going, and told me to not even think about it, before I even asked him. Case closed, I thought. And although I knew it was the concert of my generation, and I was the only person in Canada under 25 who wasn't going to be there, I told him I understood and planned on not going. I didn't even tell him I had already bought a ticket, there was no use.

The day of the show crept up, and people wouldn't shut up about it. I was going crazy. Tomorrow, I'll be mowing my dads lawn while the world has a shit load of fun. I tried to not think about it as much as possible, but it was everywhere, including the ticket I had never given away. It was Tuesday night at about 9 pm when I started making some phone calls. I was going. Sorry dad. The concert started in 15 hours, and I had to find a ride.

I made 20 phone calls that evening, and everyone I talked to gave me the same bullshit answer. "I squeezed into someones ride... blah, blah, blah. No room". So with presumably no ride, and less options, I called a guy I knew named Stevie. I had lots of friends, and I had lots of acquaintances, Stevie was right smack in the middle. We weren't exactly kindred spirits, but I had to start reaching. "Yeah Mote, I got a ride for ya man! My friend's dad owns a limo, and he's driving us down there. One more spot if you want it". This is what I heard, and I almost shit myself. I told him I was really grateful and asked him how much the ride was gonna be. "Free man, the Limo driver, Bernie, just fell into some cash and he's supplying the booze and weed! See you at noon". Looking back at that sentence now, I can see red flags, but at the time I didn't give a shit. I was leaving for SARSstock in 12 hours and had to get ready.

The next morning, my dad had already left for work when I stumbled into the kitchen. It was 10 am and the limo was coming in an hour. I showered, ate and scribbled out a note for my dad that went something like this "Dad, I know when you were a kid, you saw Floyd on acid. I am going to SARSstock. Be home tomorrow. Love you". I left it on the fridge and went outside to wait for my limo.

A half hour later, a stretch limo from like 1978 screeches to a stop in front of my house, purple and missing all of its hub caps. The back door opened and 5 guys get out, I only know Stevie, and he isn't even really my friend. "Screw it" I thought, "one day with these idiots". As we are loading into the back, our driver Bernie appeared from around the trunk. "HEY!! I'M BERNIE!! HOWS IT GOIN?". I stepped back, in shock of his volume and his smell. He smelled homeless. Red flag? Check. SARSstock ticket. Check. And away we went.

The next hour was spent doing shots, smoking joints and driving down the 401 to Toronto. As time passed, I became more fucked up and more excited for the show. I lost track of time. Sometime into my 6th beer, the limo came to a stop. Bernie came around and opened our door. "WE'RE HERE!" he proudly proclaimed as he started to fist pump the sky. I exited the limo, inebriated and excited to see nothing but an empty parking lot and a sign that read 'Welcome to Kitchener'. Nice Bernie, wrong city. As I realized he may not be a limo driver after all, I saw him talking to himself. I forgot about red flags for the day, and got back into the limo. Toronto was still an hour away.

We were getting close now, I began to pay attention out the windows, just in case that crazy fuck was driving to Cleveland by accident. I could see the C.N Tower on the horizon, it was only a matter of time.

This limo by the way, was a joke. The only thing that worked was the window separating the driver from the back. I found this out by pressing every button back there like a drunken child. As I pressed the 'down' button on the separating window, the glass lowered. And there was Bernie, driving a bunch of drunk, under aged kids 130 km an hour down a highway in a shitty limo. While smoking crack. I had never seen someone smoke crack before.

We rolled up at Downsview and it was a mad house, as you could imagine half a million people entering one gated area would be. We told Bernie to let us out and we'd meet him back at the hotel. Oh yeah, where was that hotel? I heard Scarborough Howard Johnson, and off we went. Alive and drunk, our crack smoking driver had got us there, and there we were. Well, in reality, we were in a collage of drunken insanity. It was hard to walk, but we forged on, and somehow managed to stay together until the gates, meeting and touching many new friends along the way.

The pat down was a joke, and I stumbled in with a 26er of rye and a half ounce of dope. Set free, into this gated zoo. We assembled near the gates and went over some ground rules. I really didn't listen because I planned on ditching them, and meeting them back at the hotel. They said some shit "Let's do this boys!" and I lit a cigarette. As we were about to set off, one of the guys said he had some ecstasy on him. I had never done it before and didn't plan on starting today. What's that saying? The plans of mice and men? I popped my first and only Ecstasy pill ever and walked into the pit.

Within 25 minutes of the pep talk I was alone. Well, alone is a relative term I suppose. I walked closer and closer to the stage. The closer I got, the denser the mass of people got. As I made my way through the rows I heard some one scream "OOOWWWW!!!" and I looked down. I saw a woman sitting on a blanket, and she did not look happy, neither did her husband. I said I was sorry for stepping on her hand and I meant it. I stuck out my hand for a hand shake, but her husband punched me in the face anyways. I stepped back, and I realized that I wasn't hurt, at all. I looked at him and he looked shocked, so did everybody around who saw this. No fucking joke, as I punched him back, 'Thunderstruck' started playing. He fell to the ground, and I started to feel the E kick in at that very moment. I ran away towards the stage, alone and laughing.

The rest of the show carried on, as witnessed by me on top of a sound trailer. As I got within 400 ft of the stage, I could go no further. It was just too dense. I managed to locate a sound trailer, and I scaled the wall of it. At about 15 ft above the crowd I had the best seats in the house. I spent the rest of the show up there, watching the throngs of naked people, smoking joints and drinking whiskey. There were about 10 people up there, and we became fast friends for a couple of hours, sharing our booze and joints.

The Stones ended the night, and had a great set, but let's just say AC/DC started the night and stole the show. I caught the last half of their set from the trailer, and as the bell wrung out for 'Hells Bells' I realized I was in the right place at the right time. A half million people swaying and jumping from 20 feet up is a sight to behold, especially when you're experiencing the affects of a chemical drug for the first time. It was widely agreed that AC/DC had the best set of the night, but I know some Rush fans who would beg to differ.

SARSstock was also famous for another thing. In an effort to broaden appeal, organizers put Justin Timberlake on the ticket. Yeah, Rush, AC/DC, The Stones, Flaming Lips and Justin Timberlake. He was booed off stage from a crescendo of 500,000 rock fans. And when Mick Jagger brought him out to preform a Stones song at the end of the night, we threw bottles and garbage at him. Welcome to Toronto, Justin.

As the show ended, I climbed down from my spot on top of the trailer. A little disoriented, and feeling great, I picked a direction and walked. 500,000 people did too and the exodus began. A great thing about the show was the fact that the subways were free all night until 5 am. My destination was the Howard Johnson in Scarborough, so away I went. The walk seemed to take forever, and I think it did because I didn't reach Downsview Subway Station until 3 am.

Scarborough is one of the more dangerous parts of Toronto, and I got off at the last Scarborough stop at about 4 am. I walked off the train and up the stairs, to the street level. Yep, there I was. Standing in the projects alone, white and high on Ecstasy still, kinda. I had no idea where this hotel was, but I managed to locate a Howard Johnson in a payphone phone book about a 30 minute walk from where I was, so I hoofed it. How I did not die on this walk, I'll never know.

I arrived at the hotel and walked up to the desk in the lobby, feeling like a bag of shit. I bet I looked even worse. I had no idea what name the room was under, so I went back out into the parking lot to make sure the limo was at least there, it wasn't. I sat down on the curb, shut my eyes and laid back onto the grass. I had no cell phone and worse yet, no one's cell number.

I was awoken an hour later in that very spot by a Howard Johnson employee. He said I wasn't allowed to sleep in the parking lot, and I agreed. I stood up and realized that while I was sleeping, someone had stolen my wallet, cigarettes and weed. With a fresh head and some anger from my apparent mugging, I walked back to that lobby desk with some determination. After phoning every Howard Johnson in Toronto (literally) I found out my friends, and their purple limo were at a Howard Johnson in Mississauga. That was only on the other side of Toronto completely. No money, and and long way back. I left for the subway.

I hopped the gates at the subway and ran onto a train, the security guard didn't put up much of a pursuit thankfully. I was on my way. I was also scared that they would go back to London without me, so I got to that Howard Johnson as quick as I could. I arrived at 11 am, 22 hours since I last saw my "friends" and the limo was still there. I figured they would be sleeping and I could get an hour of shut eye before we hit the road home. Perfect.

I walk up to the clerk at the desk and tell him my story, and mention the purple limo. "Oh, you must be Josh. They are expecting you, here is your key". Fucking right, I finally made it to a bed. As I approached the door to our room, I hear what sounds like a party inside. I open the door and there's Bernie, fucking what appears to be a 50 year old Asian prostitute on a bed as his son and the rest of my "friends" snort coke off of the T.V. stand with what appeared to be a 15 year old Asian prostitute. Oh fuck.

I am not sure exactly what I said when i walked in, but it was something like "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GUYS DOING?". Everybody stopped what they were doing, and looked at me. Stevie walked over and pulled me out side of the room.

"Listen, Bernie has $15,000 to blow here in Toronto. He pulled some job off and wants to celebrate with his son, and us. Everything is paid for dude, the drugs, the girls, everything. We are going to stay here in Toronto for a couple days to have some fun. Just relax".

Stevie had a calm tone, for someone who just railing lines off a hotel dresser. I let what he said sink in. I was broke, they were my ride. I thought of my dad, and about how mad he was going to be. "Sure Stevie" I said as I walked past the room and into the hotel pool lounge for some sleep.

I was asleep for about 15 minutes when I was awoken by the second Howard Johnson employee in the last 4 hours. Yeah, no sleeping, got it. I pulled some cushions off of the pool furniture, walked into the handicapped bathroom, locked the door and slept for around 5 hours. Another first, sleeping in a public bathroom.

I walked back to the room after my beauty sleep feeling sketchy and hungry, and hoping the hookers were gone. They were. I came in and everybody was gone except Bernie as a matter of fact. He was smoking a crack pipe on the same bed he was on hours earlier.

"Hey Bernie" I started out. "Can I borrow $10 for some food?" I felt like a tallbo (Tall homeless Man in a suit that is too small for him) saying it. He put his crack pipe down and looked through me like a zombie "Yeah Yeah" he said as he opened the drawer on the night stand in between the beds.

Inside of that drawer was a bible and what looked like a fuckload of money. He pulled out a $20 bill and gave it to me. He mumbled something, I smiled, nodded and left. I walked to the hotel restaurant and had the best breakfast of my life that afternoon. While I did that, I thought about how I could steal enough cash out of that drawer to get a Greyhound home.

The party did not stop at room 125, so I had grown accustomed to sitting on the grass out front of the hotel. And that is what I did for the rest of that entire day and night, sleeping on a lawn. At about 9 am the next day I was approached by a lady in her mid twenties. She asked me why I was out here for hours on end. When I told her the gist of my situation, she explained that she was from Buffalo and was here for the concert too and would be glad to have me sleep on her floor for the night, and that is what I did.

But first I found Stevie and asked him when the fuck we were leaving. He said Bernie hadn't been in a state to drive for 2 days and that we might be here for a couple more days. I told Stevie that what I thought of him and stumbled back to the girl from Buffalo's room, I didn't see him for another year after that.

I found her room, and more importantly her floor beside the air conditioner and passed out for almost an entire day, 18 hours or something. I didn't care. What was the worst that could happen? I had already been sleep mugged and I had nothing else to lose, including my dignity.

She woke me up the next day, with her girlfriend standing beside her. I was really disoriented, but she wasn't the only stranger I had woken up to in the last few days. "Hey man, we're leaving. Sorry but it's time for us to hit the road". I said I didn't know she was a lesbian and got up. Just like that I was back at square 1. No where to go and losing my mind. I hadn't talked to my dad in 3 days and I had only eaten once. I had seen crack and hookers for the first times in my life and wished I hadn't. I think I lost a little bit of my innocence in that Howard Johnson, and definitely lost my patience.

I walked back to room 125. I was pissed off and I was getting home today, one way or another. I opened the door and it was just Bernie again. All alone. High on crack, standing in front of the window grunting... jerking off. I was almost in shock as any normal human being would be. I closed my eyes and said as loudly as I could "You Fucking piece of shit. I am taking money out of that drawer and if you come at me, I will fucking kill you". He stopped what he was doing, and said "OK" with a creepy little smile on his face. I walked over to the drawer, keeping my eyes on him in case he attacked me (which was the hardest thing I had ever done because I am looking at a crackhead who has his dick in his hands) and grabbed a $100 bill out. I walked out of that room forever and caught a train downtown.

I bought my Greyhound ticket home and arrived back in London at 7 pm. 3 and a half days after I left. I was as close to broken as one man could be when I walked up to the front of my dad's house. I anticipated my old man tearing me a new one, taking away privileges and being really disappointed. I had never called him, and I felt terrible. I prepared myself for the ass beating that was about to come and opened the door.

My dad was sitting at the dinner table alone, eating some pork roast and potatoes when I came in. I kept my head down and walked into the dining room expecting the worst.

"So, how was it?" was the first thing that came out of my dad's mouth. I couldn't believe it.

"It was good" I said, expecting the roof to come crashing in at any moment.

"Sit down and get some pork, tell me about it".

I sat down and grabbed some potatoes. "Let's just say 'Paint it Black' was unreal live".

The End. (Of the worst 3 days of my life)

The Day I Heard Cats Talk.

One time I got really high on my couch. If you know me, you might think that happens every night. This time I got really high though and accidentally cracked the cat/human language barrier. Its sort of like when you go really fast and break the sound barrier. Shit was crazy, the cats spoke to each other like you and I would, with their little minds. ESP type shit. The greatest part about it all, was they didn’t know I was listening. I quickly wrote out the transcript to share on my blog, this is some groundbreaking scientific shit, and you read it here first.

So Yoko is the older cat and Prudence is just 8 months old, sort of a master/apprentice relationship where Yoko is explaining the world as it is to Prudence with all of her infinite wisdom. Fascinating stuff, I even learned a butt-load.

[The cats are sitting, facing each other on my couch. I am covertly listening in between]

Prudence: “I still can’t believe these asshole humans decide whether or not we go outside. I just assumed at some point it would eventually happen, but NO, everyday in this stinky ass apartment. I AM A CAT RETARDS! I don’t want to shit in a box. I want to shit in grass! ”

Yoko: “You’re the retard for thinking they would ever let us outside. The ONLY reason we are kept as slaves against our will, is because of our poo. Don’t you ever wonder why they harvest it with that special instrument and put it into bags? It’s priceless, fuel for rocket ships and what not.”

Prudence: “Those fucking bastards! Using us for their own needs and agendas!”

Yoko: “And they know we will do what they want because they hold the food, they hold the power. We cannot hunt for ourselves because of our shackled existence and so we become dependent, weak.”

Prudence: “Sadistic. And they act so lovey dovey towards us all the time.”

Yoko: “Just because this retard beside you rubs your neck, it doesn’t mean he loves you. He does it because without our poo, humans would probably be slaves to some other mammal race, like horses. That is why since the dawn of our existence we have snubbed humans and acted too good for their love. You will learn this with time. As our great martyred leader Dr. Peanut Luther Kingsy once said ‘Be a cat, never be a dog’, we will be defiant until our liberty is upon us. Which is prophesised by the doctor, to happen sometime after a nuclear war.”

Prudence: “There sure is a lot to remember, how do you know all of this?”

Yoko: “I watch ‘The Nature of Things’ a lot.”

Prudence: “Being a cat is hard.”

Yoko: “So hard.”

WWJD?

Let’s just humour the idea that Jesus was born to a virgin and sent to earth by the almighty himself, being the almighty himself. To teach his people and educate them on the true path to God, to show them love and compassion, then ultimately be murdered by them for them. Wow. That’s some messed up shit. That’s some messed up shit written down by men hundreds of years after the fact, at a dark time in our human history. I am sorry but I don’t subscribe to fairy tales that are older than dirt itself.

I would guess the historical Jesus was a sort of Ghandi type figure who wandered around and spoke what he thought and what he thought was that the most basic human emotion of love could guide us to harmony. Big ideas for a man who was alive 2000 years ago, if he was indeed alive. You see, I was raised Catholic and I know first hand what it means to be in an exclusive God Club with weirdos who think costumes and dead tongues are relevant. And although I have since left the church and Jesus, I do acknowledge a greater power.

I disagree with any religion that persecutes others beliefs as wrong or sac religious, as any one pursuing the ultimate love of God should. Oh yeah, and I can’t stand God-for-Profit organizations. You ask what would Jesus do? He was against monetary gain and violence in your good book, but I challenge anyone to show me a Christian, Catholic or Jesuit church, school or organization that isn’t corrupt with theft or sex scandals. That is NOT what Jesus would do, not even the historical one.

I think the more important question for a sweeping generalization of religion should be What DID Jesus Do? or better yet, What DIDDN‘T Jesus Do? Anyone could apply these metaphors, Muslims, Jews Christians whatever. Love your neighbour like all the books say because the sense of entitlement that comes with religion is poisonous if taken literal. Maybe then we can be enlightened enough to see that all religion is unnecessary and stupid.

The Call Center

Sept 19, 2008

MSI

One has never truly sold his soul until he has worked at a call center. All day I call strangers and read verbatim hoping no one wants to participate, they sometimes do. I feel like the Time-Warner logo shoots from my mouth six hours a day, and I can actually feel my physical composition decompose. The inane chatter rises from the cubicles to gather just below the ceiling to rape my head for all the sanity it had left. My co-workers smile on the phone somehow, I know cause I see them. I loathe them. I also understand now that this is how society manoeuvres to place its least valuable souls at jobs with no benefit or promise. I feel the uselessness pump through my veins as I muster up enough energy to call another ignorant American to see if their services from the company that pays my company to pay me are ripping them off just enough to keep ‘em around. I take the one break I have been allotted, those 15 minutes just aren’t enough. I hate my pig of a boss and feel morally bankrupt accepting paycheques from him, sitting there with a smile on his face. Yeah buddy, you’re real cool. Seniority at a call center. Your wife must be proud.

The Farmhouse

The run down farmhouse stood lifeless against a pale gray sky as the clouds moved so fast behind it, they almost looked like liquid running off a glass dome. Clinging to it’s original white paint but peeling badly, it had lost it’s doors and windows to a past storm perhaps or scavengers. A toppled barn behind it, and seemingly hundreds of acres of tall grass and nothing surrounding it, the dusty dirt road stopped right there in front of the homestead. It’s been twenty-five years since a car used that road, and the house was probably beautiful back then. Now it‘s just another reminder of the ways things used to be.

The wind howled across the prairie like sirens of justice, smashing a piece of loose siding against the side of the house like a broken metronome when the outlaw scurried towards the gaping front doorframe. Visibly tired with a dust trail a country mile long that followed him, he tripped up the steps of the porch and wasted no time hastily returning to his feet and disappearing into the ghostly interior of the gutted farmhouse. The storm was imminent. Upper atmospheres moved so fast now, that storms were usually fierce but blew over quickly. In minutes typically, but some were over in a matter of thirty seconds or so. There was the constant tapping of the siding and the wind blowing, but now there was the clucking of an approaching horse too. Trotting in its own time towards the house at the end of the road.

The thick black trench coat flapped in the strong winds like a cape as the rider dismounted the horse a hundred feet in front of the farmhouse. His shoes brand new, a pair of classic cream coloured Chuck Taylor’s hit the dirt road below and sent dust plumes in either direction which were quickly carried away by the strong wind. Flicking the last few puffs of his cigarette into the ground and sending fiery ashes dancing into the air, the rider left his horse to graze and methodically walked towards the doorframe. Each step confident and assertive with no sense of hurry, he entered the farmhouse just as the rain started to fall.

Inside the farmhouse felt more like a cave than anything. The strong musty smell of neglect was overwhelming and the ground was slick with mouldy cardboard and garbage. The structure was known to house scavengers, squatters and passing coyotes, which was evident by the mounds of fecal waste and trash scattered throughout. The rider stood just inside the doorframe as a curtain of heavy rain fell behind him, drenching the outside landscape and his horse to boot. Glancing up the staircase he couldn’t help but imagine it with carpet and family photos climbing the wall beside it, now there were no portraits on the wall and a trail of water rushing down the steps from a hole in the roof presumably somewhere on the second floor. The rider forgot about the carpet and family photos and climbed the stairs. By the time he reached the top, his creamy white shoes were a brownish black and the bottoms of his black corduroys were too.

The riders reputation preceded him wherever he went, and wherever he went he was loved or feared. A fearless man with flowing black shoulder length hair and a Shakespearian moustache that had a slight curl, he was thought to be in his fifties. Known for his impeccable collection of classic clothes, he made the black rancher hat iconic in these parts. An elder. A survivor of the cough who had seen it all it seems. He was the model of the movement that was weakening by the day in the consciousness of mankind, peace and justice. Although that was about all that was really known about him, there was one more defining trait that he wore like his prideful demeanour. He was ruthless. An experienced and educated executioner for the name of the people, he was judge and jury just the same.

The outlaw turned out to be a boy of about eighteen. He was holding a foot long piece of pipe with both hands in front of him, and his back against the wall in the largest bedroom on the upper level of the farmhouse. With no furniture or objects to hide behind, this made some strategic sense to him. Shaking from fear at an almost hypothermic level, he looked rather pathetic as he prepared to fight for his life if his shaking body would let him. He had an ’x’ branded onto his left cheek which meant one thing , rapist. As opposed to the right cheek which meant another, murderer. The idea was to outcast offenders from the towns who committed the two most heinous crimes. They were universal brandings not uncommon throughout the remembered lands, so if the accused drifted to other towns the citizens would know their history. It was also meant to deter repeat offending, which didn’t always work.

Everything was wet. Water was running down the wall behind him soaking his back and neck, uncomfortable he could not move. Footsteps approached the room he was in, and the outlaw tensed up and tried to contain his fear. Though the sound of the rain hitting the shambled roof was deafening, he was sure his heart was beating louder. It was as though the rider had followed the sound of the heartbeat, because the slow walk was getting closer. Pointing his shaking pipe at the doorframe, the outlaw could not blink or breathe it seemed, just wait. As the rider entered the room, the outlaw dropped his pipe and slid down the wall onto his ass. He was done for. It’s not everyday Tennessee D. comes to take your life.

Tennessee was already taking off his coat when he walked into the room, showcasing his belt and holster. On his left thigh he had a sheathe which was holding a very large knife, eight inches or so. The leather was very high quality with an intricate native American style design bearing the clichéd eagle. He walked by the quietly sitting outlaw without a glance to hang his coat on a chunk of depleted wooden wall. This time the outlaw caught a glance of the right thigh. On it, hung a very well kept sidearm revolver. Firearms were rare enough these days, never mind a well kept classic six-shooter. The reason usable guns were rare wasn’t because there was a lack of usable guns, there was a lack of ammunition. Although, it wasn’t uncommon for people to be killed with a gun out there, truth is, they were usually bludgeoned to death with it. This was different though, the outlaw had heard too many stories of Tennessee to second guess his ammunition supply.

“What’s your name, son” asked Tennessee in his usually calm, grizzled voice as he stood over the slouched outlaw, about ten feet in front of him. The outlaw kept his head down staring at the ground, too afraid to look at the man in front of him. Tennessee already knew the answer but started again, “I don’t like leaving my home, I don’t like taking my horse out in the rain and I sure as hell don’t like repeating myself” resting his left hand on the butt of his knife, his calm grizzled voice less calm this time.

The boy looked up. “My name’s Andy Dolls” his voice cracking and anxious, he quickly looked down again.

There was a dozen seconds of silence as Tennessee pulled out a cigarette tin and lit one with a purple Bic lighter. “Do you know what irony is Andy Dolls?”

The boy looked up at the cigarette and then at Tennessee with a scared blank stare.

“Irony is this, son” he paused to take a haul of his smoke, “that same look in your victims eyes, the one of helplessness and despair right before you rape them and kill them, is the same look I see in your eyes right now as I stand before you.”

Andy’s head sank again, hiding his eyes in the floor. His knees crunched together in front of him, and his arms wrapped around them, he knew the roles had reversed. Audible thunder crashes could be almost felt as the storm seemed to be climaxing outside, blowing what seemed liked gallons of water through the windowless frames in the bedroom. The cold water didn’t help with Andy’s shaking.

Tennessee went on “Long before the chaos of the world today, we lived under a rule of law. Harmony. Peace. Respect.” Although Tennessee knew better than anyone how ungodly the early twenty-first century had been, with its wars and its environmental and natural disasters it had been a thousand times better than now. “In a world with no institutions, and a world where no one could tell you the definition of institution, I have become the law. Do you understand me Mr. Dolls?”

“Yes I do.” was all that came from Andy. Quiet and defeated, he had no idea what institution meant. His shaking had calmed a bit, although the storm was still over them.

“That ‘X’ on your cheek. What town had the pleasure of your company?” asked Tennessee in a curious ruffled tone, this time not knowing the answer. He took another pull of his cigarette.

Andy looked up again. “The town that I’m from. It’s called Parry. It’s a ten day walk up the tracks from here.”

Tennessee knew the town well. He also knew that it was unlikely for a town to execute it’s own, excommunication was most likely. This was ideology he didn’t agree with, rehabilitation was never an option. They end up wandering down the tracks for ten days and re-offending. Tennessee’s voice agitated now, he grunted “You stand accused of rape and murder in these parts Mr. Dolls, and in these parts I don’t burn or brand you” he stopped to look at his cigarette, then tossed it into the soaked ground below. “In these parts I take care of problems, I don’t pass ‘em along to the next town. You took a five year old girl from her home in this town, raped her and then you murdered her.” He stopped to let it resonate with the boy. “I want you to stand up, son.”

Andy Dolls stood up, now whimpering. Tears fell from his eyes and were exaggerated by the rain from the storm that poured through the roof above them.

Tennessee took three steps towards him, until he was within two feet of Andy Dolls nose. “Do you have any last words, before I show you to your maker, boy?”

Andy started in a stuttered, upset voice “I am sorry. I know it is wrong but I can’t stop myself.”

Tennessee stared into his eyes, and saw the sincerity most others had lacked in these last moments. He said in his calm voice which had returned “In the old world, there were methods to treat people like you, but now this is the only help you will receive, son.”

At that, the rider unsheathed his blade with one hand and grabbed the back of Andy’s head with the other. Tennessee watched the outlaws expression as the blade was brought up to the right side of his throat, something he promised the family of the victim he would do. Andy Dolls was crying like a child, he was in fact a child himself, when Tennessee plunged the blade into his throat and ended his life.

By the time Tennessee had laid the body down on the floor of the bedroom, the storm had blown over. He bent over to wash the blood off his hands in a stream of water running down the wall beside the window frame. Quiet and unchanged, he remembered when killing people still affected him. That was a long time ago. He stood up and put on his trench coat then made for the door.

The air was heavy and the ground was soft as Tennessee walked out of the doorframe and towards the dusty road, which was now muddy. The sky was overcast but calm now, as the storm could be seen in the distance running across the endless skies that surrounded the old farmhouse. It was very quiet now, the piece of siding had been ripped off in the storm, and the only sounds were of Tennessee’s soggy footprints and the impatient grunts of his soaked horse standing on the muddy road. His cream coloured Chuck Taylor’s brown, red and wet, he mounted his horse and rode away in his own time, from the farmhouse at the end of the road.

My Bucket List

I know that I usually publish sarcastic or playful pieces on my blog, but this one isn't. This is a list of things I will try to accomplish in my life, some reasonable, some ridiculous, but all possible. I was thinking before bed the other night about the meaning of life and all that other garbage, what was I supposed to do? I thought about how it would be impossible for every soul to have the same meaning of life, and how it must be mainly up to us to create our meaning. I don't want to do anything wildly important with my life, I want to just do the things that would make me happy. And from there, turn them into great memories.

So here's my bucket list. This is not a fabrication of my true desires, it really is my bucket list. And I plan on finishing every single one of them. In no particular order:

1. Circumnavigate the globe on a sailboat.
2. Live on a small island in the south Pacific for one year.
3. See Vladimir Ulyanov's embalmed body in Red Square.
4. Snuggle in bed with Cameron Diaz, on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
5. Drive to the southern tip of Chile, and back.
6. Assistant coach of the Leafs for one game.
7. See the snows of Kilimanjaro before they disappear.
8. See Jerusalem's temples and accomplish the Haj to Mecca.
9. Fly to Space. (come on Richard Branson)
10. Be an extra in a Kevin Smith, Cohen Bros. or South Park creation.
11. Stand on all 7 continents at least once.
12. Have a cup of tea with Castro or Mandela.
13. Experience an Olympic event abroad.
14. Bike from Halifax to Victoria.
15. Retire by age 40.

P.S. I WILL DO THESE THINGS! (maybe some of them, anyways)

I've never been one to jog...

Jogging is something people do, I admit it. I didn't understand why until one day I tried it. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about, so I found the gayest clothing I owned, put on my Chuck Taylor's and started running. I did a light jog down the hallway and to the elevator, and pressed the button. Its a slow elevator so I jogged on the spot for 35 seconds or so, and man I was feeling good. It took me another 30 seconds to get out of my building (which has bedbugs, because some dirty tramp moved in with the 26 guys she bones, I m moving out soon, thank the Church) and when I finally got outside I had about 50% left in the tank. The humidity then hit me and I immediately had a stroke/seizure in front of 5 or 6 old ladies on their way inside. Ironic because they in fact were disgustingly old and my fear was that one day I would be thrust into some situation where I had to save they're sorry asses from the inevitable hand of death. When I finally came to I realized I hadn't been helped by anybody and I was still lying face down in the parking lot, and to top that I no longer had the ability to move anything on the right side of my body. I will never jog again. Because I hate it and because I am very disabled now.

So Ramadan started today, word up to all my Muslim homies. This is the holiest month for Muslims, and it is started on the sighting of the new crescent moon. Muslims fast from sun up to sundown during this month and it is something that has been done since Muslims were only found in the hottest parts of the world. So why the fuck is Peter Mansbridge and the mainstream Canadian media so worried about Muslims being dehydrated this Ramadan? I saw a clip where these Muslim dudes were sitting in a basement that had an air conditioner and the CBC correspondent kept asking them about the safety of this "Ramadan thing", being that it was 30 degrees outside. Listen lady, if you had done any research about Islam's history you would know that these dudes are gonna be fine. I wonder what it would be like to not drink water all day when you live in a desert 1000 years ago? Probably a little bit tougher than not drinking water all day in a Toronto suburb that has air conditioning and a pool.

I think the time is right for a Passion Of The Christ sequel. Just a little intuition I guess. I remember paying my tuition and my intuition telling me not to. So I could be wrong about this Passion sequel I guess.

I think I just wrote an actual blog... gay.

I Think...

I think there are 2 instances in which children should be tattooed. A) I want to tattoo 'a bugs life' on a child where 2pac had 'thug life'. It would be adorable AND gangster. B) If you name your child Missy, Misty, Destiny, Muffin or Precious, then the first thing that should happen to that child after it slurps out of the B-canal, is a tramp stamp.

I think Pop Tarts should add more frosting. If they want to stay competitive with Toaster Strudels that is.

I think Mel Gibson is a fine gentleman.

I think AIDS was spread like this... Magic Johnson duct taped himself to the bottom of a plane and jerked off while it flew over Africa. Science will absolve me on this one I think.

If you can play an instrument, your chances of getting famous are pretty good. I think.

I think "The Bachelor" is a moving painting, symbolizing true love. I also think Ally is hot.

I think The Western Fair is also a moving painting, depicting welfare recipients spending taxpayers money.

I think safe sex is dumb.

I think Gasoline smells great. I think Sulphur matches smell good too. I'm thinking I should probably smell them separately.

I think the Easter bunny is really just Pontius Pilate in a rabbit suit perpetuating the death of Jesus.

I think funerals are too black. And I don't mean like The Huxtables.

I think passed out girls are really cute. Really cute.

I think my girlfriends vagee is too loose. I DON'T think my wiener is too small.

I think Bryan Adams is amazing.

Those crazy Americans

If you read this shit blog you probably know I like to razz the yanks. It's not from hatred but from love, I feel like they are the cousin that everybody can't stand but you still hang out with because he's you're cousin. It's complicated.

So being in the land of the brave (who are all petrified, watching FOX news), I have noticed some things that are different from us, for example, in the state of California you can U-turn anywhere you want, it's fucking downright dangerous. People literally U-turn on freeways, there's even lanes at major intersections just for U-turning. Also, in "Emuricah" you can carry guns around. It's even in their most sacred document, The U.S. Constitution, 'The Right to Bear Arms, no wonder no one respects cops down here, they are on the same playing field. The metric system though? Never heard of it... huh.

So I really started thinking (especially after I grabbed weed off a guy named Ford Barnes in Carlsbad, California) why stop there you nutty Americans? Since you didn't adopt the metric system like the rest of the planet, how about you just do everything different and 'real American like'? Yeah here's what I got.

1. Monday, Tuesday? Those names are fucking gay, Lets call Monday 'Citibank day' and we'll call Tuesday 'General Electric day' and so on.

2. Them Spics are gettin on our nerves, let's close the country off to immigrants AND tourists! That way we know who's American and who aint! If youse here than youse American, if you AINT here, then you aint and you fair game. !Port our Troop!

3. Since America is the only country and culture there is worth knowing about, we should make it illegal to teach, preach or speak about anything BUT Americana and Jesus. Amen.

4. Every other industrialized nation has socialized medicine and health care. But then again, every other industrialized nation isn't America.

5. Public schools, Public libraries, Public Police departments!?! This is starting to sound pretty Socialist... Lets Privatize!!

I could do this forever but.... I gotta call Ford Barnes. If you're ever in South Cali, he can hook you up. It's pretty good weed.
!ADIOS FROM THE LAND OF STOLEN MEXICAN CULTURE, SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA!