Canada's climate is nine months winter and three months late in the fall.
- Evan Esar
Hello and greetings to one and all from the Great White North. Well, not TOO far north, just across the St. Lawrence River in the little town of Morrisburg, Ontario, where my wife spent a few of her formative years.
It's nice here.
They say you can walk across this town in ten minutes if you do it at three in the morning, but it'll take a few hours in the afternoon, because you'll stop every few feet to talk to someone. Small town living is not what I am used to, having lived in or near LA most of my life, and friendly people sometimes mortify me. Takes a few days to get used to.
This is a “working vacation” which is obviously a contradiction in terms and/or oxymoron or plain stoopid, because I have been doing a lot of working with little vacationing, so I take a lot of breaks and wander about; down to the Canadian Tire or Tim Horton's, sometimes to the shoreline to watch freighters head toward the locks, and I get to stop and wrestle with my kids a lot. So I won't complain. I could be stuck in an office. Or unemployed.
My Mother in Law (a good one – I am very grateful for having a MIL that I don't want to strangle) got us theater tickets for a play written by an Ottawa native, a local who is pretty popular. The doors closed at 7:55, so we started walking to the theater at 7:50 and got there two minutes early. Small town. Weird.
Back to work soon, so I better get started on this lot.
1.) My 7-year-old is the daughter of Quasimodo. She's a pallid, awful and hairy girl-beast from hell. Talking to her about inner beauty will be worse than a lie, since I'm obviously bothered by her eyebrows! I've been tempted to look into electrolysis down the road, but what kind of maternal instinct is that?
Shallow Mom – Your letter makes me – and others, I am certain – wonder how you can even tell what your daughter looks like when your head is stuffed so far up your ass like that. People with otherwise unobstructed views of their children do not suffer from similar idiocy.
No, dickhead, I am not talking about the issue of your hirsute monster-child. That's not the issue, or at least it isn't until she's older and realizes that you've made it one.
I am talking about your idiotic question: “What kind of maternal instinct is that?”
There will come a time that you and your daughter will have a reckoning about her whole Chewbacca thing, and this question of whether to attack it with a laser, razor, or flamethrower will come clear. It may come soon: she's seven, and kids are likely to notice that she doesn't walk on all fours or swing from the ceiling fixtures, so she may be a suspected humanoid and somewhat furry, thus ripe for teasing.
Meanwhile, go refill your goddamn prescription and back off on the coffee, because you're making everyone nervous.
2.) My fiance and I are getting married soon, so we are obviously retarded and incapable of forming a coherent thought. We're having a difference of opinion over who walks down the aisle, because hey: we're getting married, so we are obviously supposed to act like a couple of moronic nose-picking goddamn assholes. I'd like to keep this a family procession. What am I not seeing here?
Aisle of Pain – Elope. Seriously, get in the goddamn car and get the fuck out of here. I don't care where you go, just go. Having you on this planet is sucking the very life out of the rest of humanity, because you're GETTING MARRIED, therefore you are a fucking imbecile. Everyone hates you. They should, too.
Here's a little experiment: I am going to say something. “This is only a wedding, it's not that important.”
Ah, yes, everyone hear that shrieking sound? That's the sound of a bride to be, just told that weddings – and specifically her wedding - are not the big deal they think they are. Bloody hell, it's terrifying isn't it?
Listen up you insipid, gawking little butt nugget: everything about your silly-assed question is a universal insult to humankind, and nobody cares but you and your idiot groom. Shut the fuck up, go away, and just get it over with. Sooner is better – you have a divorce to plan, you know.
3.) I raised two daughters as a single parent by choice. I stupidly opted to spoil the fucking hell out of them and spent everything I had doing it. I incorrectly blame the economy, but now I am broke and they won't give me any money to buy food. How do I tell them that I'm hurt about their lack of concern and would like to be treated by them once in a while?
Tired of Giving – Sorry to hear about your financial issues, but there's a moral to your tale that others can learn from.
When you teach your children to want for nothing, they learn that nothing is wanted. That means you, you goddamn airhead. What they fuck are you expecting? You systematically taught them to take without giving, and now you are trying to find a way to backpedal and teach them to be generous? They don't know the word, asswipe. Bonus: your kids are not supposed to raise you, genius.
Here's context for your letter: “Dear Prudie, I made this big cool monster thing out of dead people's parts and afterward I discovered it was hideous. I started disliking it, and now it's wandering the streets killing people and I just don't understand why it doesn't love me. Signed, Victor Frankenstein. PS: Marty Feldman drank all my goddamn scotch.”
There is no lesson for them yet, Mommy Dearest, but the lesson is yours first: when you make a shit pie, be prepared to have it thrown in your face.
4.) I'm a bargain-hunter and sometimes find great deals on gift certificates for expensive restaurants in my city. These restaurants are normally out of my price range, but I enjoy romantic dinners there. Is it cheap or tacky to use such gift certificates on a date, especially one of the first few dates?
Frugal – Finally, someone I can understand! You came to the right place, bro, 'cause just like you, I got chicks climbing me like horny little monkeys in a tree! They're typical bitches, you know, all after the big fella, know what I'm saying? I go out with a different chick three, maybe four times a week, dude, and between you and me, we know the story: it gets spendy, but if you want a taste of the poon, you need to drop a lot of the green. Those panties don't come off for free.
Straight up – Prudie's not the shit, because honesty is not the best policy with the bitches. They find out you're a cheap-ass, they'll dump you and find someone with better cash flow. Makes it harder to get some ass doesn't it?
Look, with practice you can sneak the coupons to the server without the chick knowing what you're doing, just be careful. Be smooth. Get it all paid for when she's taking a pee, maybe, then it's back to your place for some serious hump and tackle, know what I mean? Bitches like that shit!
Translation: God save us. Are you on Jersey Shore? Please go away.
And with that it's off to the weekend – there's a carnival in town the kids need to go to, and there's ice cream down by the dock (mini Rolo chunk, mother of God it's amazing), and it's 77 degrees outside (sorry, I am being silly: it's 25, eh?) and despite long work days sequestered in this little office at my in-laws place I am veeeeery happy to be here. Except there's no good beer and what beer there is costs a fortune.
Old joke, sin taxes being what they are in Canada. Six pack of beer? Costs $18.50. A new liver? Free!