Saturday, May 5, 2007

Aunty Christ has been on a Robotussin holiday

Oh, I’m sick. Sick, I am! Speaking like Yoda suddenly am I! Oh fuck, it’s even worse than I thought.

And I had a lot of stories to tell you all—y’all, all of you—too. Stories like: The Pancake Employment Seminar, and What the Fuck Was Up with That Too-Broadly Smiling Honolulu Hilton Refugee in the Tropical Shirt? (Not to even mention that other guy, in the pressed suit, or the two teenagers in hats, or the fact that nary a pancake was to be seen in special Pancake Employment Seminar Room. Oh, and then there was the lady who was running the joint—who took an instant dislike to me, after I splashed her by accidentally turning on the water too high in my neighboring sink in the ladies’ room—as thick and broad as a water buffalo, clad in discount-rack Macy’s tweed pants and with a sour look on her face that begged to be smacked with a pancake. Well, that’s about the whole story, right there, since we sat outside the seminar, not feeling like being bored to death first thing in the morning.)

Then, there’s this: I shot my first gun. Very fun, though a bit shocking to realize that a careless move could mean death, or, more likely, injury, as I was only firing a .22-caliber. Yes, the holes it produced on the target sheet were far less satisfying than those of Rich Bachelor’s .45, which marked the sheet with an explosive tear, but still. I do not see myself ever being comfortable with the sound and kick of a .45. Then again, only days ago I was ardently against firearms, so I guess things change.

And I testified before a grand jury—another first. It was a much more relaxed experience than I expected. I arrived about ten minutes late, kind of thinking that I’d be greeted by The Law (arms folded to note unhappiness with me), stating, “Well, now another bike thief will be loose on the streets, thanks to you.” And then there was the thought that I might be directed—or at least interviewed—by the assistant D.A. pre-testimony, which is what always happens on Law & Order, anyway. Oh, not like Law & Order highlights bike thefts every week, I know. I suppose the Saskatoon D.A. office has more on its plate than me and my beautiful bicycle. Anyway, it was all very informal, and the assistant D.A. was fresh out of diaper school—pink-cheeked and optimistic, as opposed to worn-out and hardened to the realities of bicycle thievery. I answered a few questions from Mr. Diaper School, and then took questions from the crowd of my adoring fans (grand jury, I mean), and that was it. By the time Rich had parked the car and come to get me, my part in the legal process was over. Well, presumably I’ll be getting a summons to testify at the trial. That will be fun for me. Yay public speaking!

The highlight of last week, though, was to be found in Eastern Saskatchewan, where Rich and I spent the weekend. I’m sure he has more to say on the subject of the trip in its entirety, so I’ll not steal his thunder. I’ll not rustle his cattle or pinch his cap or swipe his pickle! But I do have this to add to the discussion: While Rich and his She Bear were off getting coffee our first night, I took da thug dawgs on a walk around the outside of the hotel—unleashed, since the hotel backed to a large, mowed lawn holding a duck pond, and surrounded by what I think was a wheat field. Or an empty field of some sort. After walking down to the pond, we went back toward the hotel, to a sidewalk that abutted the building, and continued down the sidewalk, past the pool, toward our room. A few steps past the pool, however, was an open door. Before I had even taken notice of this fact, Goofus was already inside, running around A ROOM OF MIDDLE-AGED WOMEN ATTENDING A SEMINAR. Not even thinking at this point—in fact, totally ignoring the fact that this situation was actually occurring—I grabbed Gallant and carried him inside the room, where some 60-odd menopausal women are oohing and ahhing and giggling over Goofus, who is skittering his way down the aisle between the folded metal chairs, and the woman with the microphone is kind of muttering her disapproval of the whole event—“Well, I suppose no one’s able to pay attention to me anyway”—and then the tiniest of bitter forced laughs. I mouth, “I am so sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry,” and try to look contrite. I scoop up Goofus and run out of the room, hunched over the 51-pounds of thug dawg in my arms, as the women cheer. Highly embarrassing, of course, but also, strangely, empowering—to be applauded by strangers for being the worst dog owner ever. Thank you, thank you.

This week has been filled with lots of lying in bed, coughing myself awake, pressing fingers to cheekbones in order to (try to) relieve pressure in the goddamn sinus cavities, cursing my existence, weeping, living in fear of the next big coughing attack, aching, Robo-tripping, drooling, farting, mumbling incoherently, etc. In the midst of all this, I eked out a single dream out of all my hours spent in bed. In it, I was told that my recent blog entries have been so bad as to be embarrassing. Embarrassing! Well, point taken, Subconscious Me. I will try harder. For now, though, this is the best my virus-weakened mind can muster.


George Popham said...

a 48.? Is there such a caliber?

Funny Deb and I are picking out new bows because we acccidentally got into archery. True story. Now, I love to shoot guns, mind you, to which rich can attest, but, I had never seriously considered archery in the same category of projectile fun until I found an old cheapo Bow and some arrows and put tennis balls on the tips of the arrows and began shooting them out my office window to scare the squirrels off my bird feeders (miserable, insatiable, greedy little furballs) Then a remarkable thing happened, I got good at it. I can actually whack a squirrel right off a bird feeder at 50 feet with a fair amount of regularity. I cannot explain why this is so rediculously satisfying.

Anyway, Deb and I went to this indoor archery range and have started taking classes and now we are buying new Bows and Arrows... And to my amazement, archery people are actually surprisingly great people... well, anyway, this archery stuff I meant to tell Rich about when I was commenting over there, but I forgot, but I suggest to both ya'll that we have a bullet and arrow festival when I am in town in June and go out to both ranges.

OK, I am getting to work now... I will I will I willl

rich bachelor said...

Truth be told (oh, and Let It!), it was a .45 I was shooting.

Aunty Christ said...

Oh, sorry. Poke holes in sicky's narrative, will you? Sick or not, actually, sicky don't know shit about guns.

Speaking of calibers, I am reminded of a blogger I used to read who was pretty hilarious in that she would regularly complain that she couldn't think of anything to blog about, so would someone please give her a topic for her next post, and almost as regularly point out that many bloggers have been discovered by publishing companies, and she would like to know why she hasn't been. "I am a writer of the highest calibur," wrote she. Couldn't have said it better myself.

Will edit to correct gun caliber. Thanks.

rich bachelor said...

Whoops. And by '.45', I of course meant '.44'. Please further correct errata. Thnx.

George Popham said...

Actually, and I really mean this, I thought there might be an exotic or antique .48 caliber pistol out there, and if so I wanted to call dibs on getting to shoot the thing when next I'm in town.

I make far far to many tiny detail mistakes to risk incuring the bad karma of being the kind of asshole that corrects other people's tiny detail mistakes.

George Popham said...

Oh, and 44.s are fun, make big boom, hurt wrist, destroy watermelon...

Aunty Christ said...

Other things that I got wrong include:

1. Smiling Guy from Pancake Employment Seminar resembled a refugee from the Hilo Ramada Inn, not the Honolulu Hilton.
2. Water Buffalo's pants were a sensible wool-poly blend, not tweed.
3. And had a face that begged to be smacked with a German Pancake.
4. I do not live in Saskatoon.
5. The assistant D.A.--though he was young and cute as a bug (a millipede, to be specific)--wasn't really pink-cheeked, that I remember. A bit flushed, maybe.
6. Rich and She Bear weren't off getting coffee; rather, they were destroying street signs with baseball bats.
7. At least a few of the women at the seminar were post-menopausal.
8. Goofus + Gallant = 52 pounds of dog.
9. I don't fart.

Sorry for any inconvenience this has caused anyone. Will try to conduct better research for future blog posts.

George Popham said...

OK, just a few other little factoids to assure perfect accuracy.

1. "Saskatoon's" large Maui-ian population would point to the waiter's hotel of origin being somewhere on that nobel island, and *not* Honaschmoose-ooze.

2. North Americn Bison either cannot or will not wear polyester, no, not even blends I'm afraid, and at least one South Dakota Rancher lies in his grave as a testament to the fact. I suspect water buffalo might similarly object, so on that matter I am still suspicious.

3. The only effective breakfast weaponry are pigs in a blanket. And German pancakes aren't even pancakes, they're Dutch.

4. But what of the photos of you stumbling out of the Mangy Moose at three am just last week. Do you expect us to believe you were just visiting "friends"? In Saskatoon?

I think not.

5. The Freetown screw company went out of business in 1979. I was in the town of Freetown yesterday on a Bow hunting expedition, so I was able to verify this. (Your cherubic assistant DA's father's cousin's former place of employment. Check it out.)

6. She Bear and Rich would never destroy street signs with baseball bats; they'd use either stolen golf clubs or axes borrowed from Fire Chief Dick Hopper of the Pendleton fire dept.

and on a tangential note: Arrows will penetrate kevlar bullet proof vests. So ATF agents coming to storm *MY* thugee revivalist voodoo fusion cult compound be advised.

Take that, Mr. 44. calibur!

Anyway it's late and I'm getting out of here before I have to open up a can of Whoop Ass on your misguided notions regarding the human gastro-intestinal tract.

Junk Thief said...

Do they ask for your ID when you buy your Robotussin, Aunty? Or is that just a U.S. thing? One time the border guards in Windsor held me in detention for three hours because I was two tablets over my limit on Flinstone vitamins. Gosh, I felt like I was so edgy back then.

Bryce Digdug said...

I remember Goofus and Gallant! Thanks for the hilarious blog which I found via Junk Thief.


Aunty Christ said...

George: I hear you'll be coming out this way in time to use the beach house before its unfortunate sale? I look forward to schooling you on the disgustingness of maritime life, as well as the human digestive system, my friend. Will the Pop-Tart be accompanying you? Say hello, if you would. I mean no disrespect by calling her "Pop-Tart," of course. I think you wrote "T-Tart," but I have no idea what that means. I have only good memories associated with Pop-Tarts, however, sweet and convenient as they are.

Junk Thief! !!! Thanks for the link. What an unexpected treat for me, after such a long period of ignoring my blog. To answer your question, no. Strangely enough, I haven't been carded or limited in my purchase of Robotussin--though as recently as last year my Sudafed-buying rights were infringed upon. What's the difference, I wonder? Can one not make meth with Robotussin? Well, I have no idea, and no interest, frankly, but maybe I'll google it and come back with the answer later on.

Bryce: Thank you for reading! I will be sure to update my blogroll to add both you and the Thief, once I miraculously become not so lazy. Always appreciative of new readers.

Aunty Christ said...

Yes! I did update my blogroll. More on that later--or perhaps not.