OK God please listen fools, this is not a joke. Call the cops. THE AMERICAN COPS! I am being held prisoner in Canada by…I don’t know, some kind of French lesbian mafia. I can see them from my cage. They are shouting French into some expensive-looking talkie-walkies and waving their slender, toned bare arms in the air angrily. All of them are smoking, but NONE OF THEM WILL GIVE ME ONE. Some of them have guns, two of them are making out and all of them are wearing black t-shirts with some asshole called “The Arcade Fire” on them, which I gather is some kind of House of Commons standing committee established by Queen Whatever to remind every college kid in the world what David Bowie sounded like.
THE TRIP I WON TO CANADA WAS A SCAM! This should be obvious to you now. Some radical nut-job péquistes bought the radio station, set up the contest, ellipses et cetera, and now I’m being held ransom and will not be released until my record label gives them blah blah amount of stupid mon–I haven’t even been with that label since…1984? They’re probably not even around anymore! I really doubt Ronald Reacords is still in business. It would shock me to discover that a free jazz label established as a Halloween prank by the most senile of all former Republican presidents was still around and making money today. Not a one of these graceful, stupid French hookers is getting a dime. These enchanting Canadian terrorists are in for a real kick in the squeaky little boobs.
OK look now really I don’t have much time. I stole Avril Lavigne’s laptop when she and girl from ABC’s Revenge were fighting about whose haircut was the sexiest. So listen: I AM SOMEWHERE IN MONTREAL. I AM HUNGRY AS A BASTARD. I NEED AMERICAN CIGARETTES. THE SMELL OF CHEAP POUTINE HANGS IN THE AIR THICK LIKE A FAT CHILD’S VOMIT IN THE RESTROOM AT UNIVERSAL STUDIOS ORLANDO. Please help me get the hell out of here…I know! Dress up the Arcade Fire girl like a terrorist and give her a gun and a talkie-walkie, and…No, shit that won’t work, they know what she looks like, they’ll know it’s a set-up. Think, dammit. Oh no. Avril and Karine have arrived at a decision: Karine’s haircut is the most lovely. And I really have to agree, I mean, and it’s just so, and they changed it every week! She had a different haircut every week on that show and each haircut was just lovelier than the las–SHUT UP AND RESCUE ME TODAY BECAUSE MY STOCKHOLM SYNDROME IS EITHER GONNA GET ME MARRIED OR SHOT IN THE HEAD.
I have won a trip to Canada. I was driving home in my car when I accidentally won a radio contest. I meant to call the pizza parlor and order a delicious pepperoni pizza, when I dialed the radio station instead. Apparently, I correctly answered the trivia question, “What is the American variety of salami that is usually made from cured pork and beef mashed together and sliced thin for pizza topping and hot sandwiches?”
My knowledge of Canada is limited because I have only been there once, in 1978, as part of a touring Jazz ensemble called Mouthful of Jazz. (I was not responsible for the name. Had I been responsible for the name, it would have been Whereas Jazz Has Pizzazz, Alcatraz Has Bad Dads. I guess that’s why I wasn’t responsible for the name.)
The only things I remember about Canada are the numerous hairy marmots that roamed the streets, and the numerous hairy strippers that roamed the streets offering “marmots” to lonely men, which is a hand job performed with a wool mitten on. The rest of my knowledge of Canada is based on hearsay, and films. One film about Canada that I particularly enjoyed was The Saskatchewan Redemption, which was about a Canadian prisoner who escapes, then returns and politely informs the warden of the insufficient security measures at the prison, where he served the remainder of his sentence quietly. It starred a white Canadian actor as the main character, and another white Canadian actor as the main character’s best friend, because there are no black people in Canada. (Which is why my Jazz ensemble was met with such confusion from the locals.)
So I’m packing my bags tonight and I’m getting on the airplane tomorrow, then it’s off to Canada for a week. I’m not sure whereabouts in Canada I’m going, because the ticket only says “Canada.” I hope this is a real plane ticket and not some joke perpetrated by the idiots on the morning radio show. Have any of you heard of an airline called I.C.U.P. Airlines?
My computer has a virus on it. (I was not downloading porn.) My computer used to work properly. When I turned it on, I was presented with my desktop image, which was a picture of Miles Davis smoking a giant doobie in 1948, and my desktop icons, which were arranged alphabetically. Now when I turn my computer on, I am presented with the desktop image, which is now a picture of a giant skull with a skeleton hand coming out of the mouth giving me the middle finger, and my desktop icons, which are now arranged in the shape of an upside down pentagram. I am told by several people that this symbol is commonly associated with devil worship, which is all my computer is good for now apparently.
I tried to use the internet, but instead of the internet, now I have something that is called the “Beibernet,” which is basically just like the internet, except all it has are pictures and videos of some woman named Justin Beiber, who I’ve never heard of but who I am told by many people is also associated with devil worship.
So now I am at Starbucks using a laptop I borrowed from one of the baristas for the purpose of telling you all that there is a virus on my computer and that if any of you know how to remove computer viruses, I would greatly appreciate a consultation.
The barista is looking at me funny. Perhaps she believes I am looking at pornography. I am not. The barista has a nose ring and some tattoos that are probably associated with devil worship. What the hell is wrong with this town?
It has been two and one half years since I last wrote in this godforsaken blog. But, as usual, Catherine won’t shut up about the internet. She just discovered cat videos. When she told me about them, I naturally assumed she was talking about some new kind of pornography, but then she showed me some and I wished it had been pornography. At least in pornography the big things don’t have a hard time fitting into the little things, whereas the morbidly obese cat Catherine showed me could NOT fit into the comically small fishbowl it was trying to hide in. Why do cats always wish to shoehorn their giant bodies into the smallest of objects? I believe evolution is responsible. In caveman times, cats were the size of horses and people rode them around. They hated being ridden, because cats are stupid and lazy. Eventually, the cats started trying to hide in small spaces to avoid being ridden, like in a hollowed-out log, or a hollowed-out tree, or the hollowed-out carcass of a cat who was too big to fit all the way into a hollowed-out log and died sticking half-way out. My point is, the cats who could fit into small places eventually won out over the cats who could not, and this trait was passed down for millions of years until today, when your average housecat spends most of the day brooding and avoiding everyone inside of an empty Cheerios box.
My other point is, I’m pretty much black-out drunk right now.
Against my better judgment, I told Catherine I would start a “blog.” She’s been nagging at me to “get with the times and stop being old, you old Whale.” Shit. Can you believe at my age I’m taking orders from a little girl I know? I hope she knows that this deal is going to be a strong PG flirting with a PG-13. “Tell people your thoughts,” she says to me. Do you know what would happen if I just went around telling everybody exactly what I thought about them at all times? There would be a lot of raw egg and cabbage and tomatoes and whatever the hell else other produce people carry around all over me, because, and she knows this about me, I’m a grump. “A grump with a heart of gold,” she says this one time, like I’m some hooker from a 1970s movie who only does it hard with strangers to pay for her grandmother’s medical bills. But it’s true, I love that little rascal. Christ knows my own kids never call me on the phone. I even got a cordless phone the other day. Part of my “getting with the times” thing I’m doing that I mentioned in my blog earlier. How the hell long is one blog supposed to be. I feel like stopping now, but I really haven’t said anything. I’m stopping now.