just another, good ol’ Canadian « exposition de merde » !
Hey followers, hangers-on and random stumblers-upon, sorry I’ve been MIA but it’s hard work fending off all the convoy dudes with one hand tied behind my back and a can of Molson in the other.
Yeah, that was all my fault, that snafu in Ottawa. Kind of embarrassing, right?
On the other hand, yay for me!
It all started as a random Wednesday night hook-up with this dude on Grindr — by the way, have you seen that Pornhub ad that goes, “Want to masturbate, but haven’t got a partner?”
WTF? Partner? So you mean to tell me that what I’ve always assumed was meant to be quality one-on-one time with the baloney pony, blissfully free of online app scrolling and Jell-O shooters, now requires someone to spot me and maybe additional back-up on the benches? Jeezus.
I surely must have missed something in Miss Smedley’s Grade Eight sex education class.
I do remember her instructions, which were, “To avoid blindness, pray with your dad right before bedtime, then lie very still while he immobilizes your arms above the sheets with the plastic twist-ties.”
Anyway, yeah, so this guy says he’s in his truck heading in from Thunder Bay and he’s looking for some cab action. So I think, what the heck! After all, you only live once, for eight decades, then get stuck in a medical-grade freezer for twenty thousand years!
Before you know it I’m naked in the back of an eighteen-wheeler and barreling down the 401. Fantasy fulfillment, big time! Once in Ottawa he ran into some dudes, or maybe bros, I get them mixed up, and if there were ten guys, there were twenty haircuts between them. We’re talkin’ major mullet!
Unfortunately things got a little rowdy, and just between you and me I thought flashing that camera crew from the CBC then peeing on their Timberland boots was a little “de trop”, but basically Trev’s Good People.
(Good People, if you don’t know, is the lingo for career criminals or other loser deadbeats who’ll at least spot you a shard before they disappear with your wallet, then get busted an hour later at Hooker Harvey’s trying to pay for a bacon burger with your Platinum VISA.)
But it’s true. Trev’s had a hard life, what with his long days on the road, and overdoing the Fentanyl so he blacks out from time to time when he’s driving, which, as a disability, gets him a support cheque with special dietary allowance, and then narrowly avoiding doing time after he was ratted out by — and I quote, excuse the transphobic language — “some chick with a dick.”
What a story! Everything but the bloodhounds snapping at his rear end, said Thelma Ritter in every movie!
(But let’s nip one thing in the bud right now: Hey Trev! I’ll make you a deal: You don’t call a pre-op male-to-female transgender woman a “chick with a dick” and I won’t call you “a lazy fuck in a weed-stinking truck”. Capisce?)
I should have noticed sooner. But when push comes to tear gas, who would have thought jumping into a hot tub naked with a bunch of partied up white trailer trash with a grudge on the gov could lead to such havoc?
What an exposition de merde! Honking all night, in-yer-face, overt racism instead of the regular, apologetic Canuck-type racism, Nazis in Canada Goose jackets when they always look so much better in black leather, and it’s all so obviously Justin’s fault, I don’t know why they don’t extradite him right back to Havana with his mother, La Putana.
Hey! Whaddaya think of this for a meme: Hot Tubs with Hot Dudes Matter! I’m thinking T-shirts, tin camping mugs, and maybe one of those car deodorizer things, very much needed in this particular man-cave of a cab I might add, that you hang from the rear-view mirror along with the big pair of furry dice. You gotta admit, it’s original, eh? Shtup me with a socket wrench if I know what it means, though. Seriously.
You know the drill. Pretty soon they invited their buds over, all in these gigantic trucks, and they invited THEIR friends, and on and on and so forth, and one thing led to another — and I mean, I’m sorry about your sad little restaurant and going to your stupefyingly boring yet I’m sure essential work at the parliamentary library and stuff, but c’mon. Innocent Canadian fun!
Well, OK, Canadian fun, and that’s challenging enough to find as it is. If you don’t fancy the standard, virtually identical fifty-seven Canadian leisure activities that involve slipping on an icy surface then snapping off part of a frostbitten limb, you’re pretty much stuck with re-reading The Handmaid’s Tale, by Margaret Who?, or better yet, watching it.
Does Margaret Who? have a Handmaid’s Tale podcast? Because I think she should read it to me in her spare time when she’s not busy giving her opinions about transgender people. Even transgender people tend to learn new things about themselves — like that they don’t exist, which is obviously going to take you aback when you find out — when experts like Margaret Who? are given a subsidized channel for their alternative, non-fact-based views. Everyone deserves a hearing of their opinions, no matter how obscure they are!
Or just settle for the porn version, what was it again? “Some Handmaid Tail”? “A Tale of Ten Handjobs”? I can’t work it out. But at least you won’t be alone when you masturbate! Jeezus Stephen Chrysostomus Harper! God forfend!
Anyhoo, a bangin’ ol’ Ottawa good time was had by all, eh?
Slideshow of the “slide show,” if you know what I mean! LO friggin’ L!
But apparently those stiff necks in Parliament, and a bunch of old ladies who couldn’t get to Hunt’s Blue-Rinse Bakery for their raisin bread, or whatever, they all got a whiff of Dave Muggins here having a bit of fun for a change and decided to close the whole thing down. Story of my life! Me versus a world of party-poopers!
Now if Justin could just relax a bit — no, let’s get this right. If Justin could just learn to relax whatever muscles are currently clenched, and take the relaxed ones and clench them up… you see where I’m going with this?
And when I say clench, I mean clench them tighter than a Quebecker’s pouty lips when he catches a whiff of signage in English, or of some radical-Islamic terrorist teacher putting on her hijab and heading out to her job ruining some poor school kids’ innocent secularism, you know?
Quebeckers! You gotta admit they’re consistent. No sooner are they firing hijab wearers for covering their heads than they’re mandating covering your face! It’s all so obviously what Jesus would have wanted.
Did I say Jesus? Sorry, I meant Maurice Duplessis!
Where was I? Justin. Slacking for clenching, when it’s not clenching for slacking. He’s basically got everything right — just too slow, too quiet and in reverse! But what would really turn voters around is if he could grow that beard out again…
Honestly? Whenever I see him standing at that news podium, all bed-disheveled and tousle-haired and porn-bearded, like a seventies adult performer ready to prove that dining out can happen down below, I’m thinking, last one in the hot tub’s a white-dancing str8 boi! I’ll even give you a quarter for a ‘tache ride.
After I use my tongue to dab up all those loose croissant crumbs that Sophie-Grégoire didn’t catch in the first round. He can take the opportunity to deploy the good ol’ bottle of Listerine before I thrust my Hansard down his throat.
Ready, little buddy? Swish and spit, swish and spit. There ya go.
Oh, please. Don’t tell me a fluid gender-acknowledging cutie like JT hasn’t unleashed an anger-dissipating palm or ten on former butt-buddy Gerald Butt’s butt. When you reach the zenith of Canadian political life that the office of PM represents, you get an official BFF, and let me tell you, that BFF’s butt is to a leader what a pillow is to the rest of us plebs — something to vent on.
You know what it’s like. And if you don’t, let me tell you what it’s like: Very, very pink! Are you kidding me?
Well, then. I couldn’t end my sexual shenanigan-themed occupation of our national capital region without putting in my demands, so here goes:
Hey, bébé! I’m parked here for good until you completely ditchez la biche et faites le switch, heins?! Calisse de Tabernak! You’re not gonna negotiate? Well, then, get a loada THESE emergency measures, cochon! Go on, seize my assets, baby! Double-dare ya!
Uh-huh! You love it! L O friggin’ L!
[* Really, I’m telling you, he’s not gay. I know, right? But nope. Definitely not. No, siree! Not even un petit peu, heins?]
[** no, the other one.]
Ahem. So, a day or two to get over that low-grade beer hangover, you know what I’m talking about. And I’ve been working my needs-a-cushion-for-at-least-a-week butt off on Future Progressive, my site that takes the right wing on with merchandise both silly and sophisticated, depending on which of my two moods I’m in.
Check it out and tell me what you think! New merch is being added daily, so check back, and join my mailing list over there for occasional updates and deals.
Say goodnight, Dave.