sobering message for BC booze pros

drooling drunk but not YET propositioning the lieutenant-governor of the province 

Now, I don’t know if you grew up in the Middle of Great Canadian Buttfuck Nowhere like most of us here did, but if you did, then I won’t need to explain to you the great Canadian principle and tradition of the bush bash.

This has nothing whatsoever to do with American politics, except that, in all likelihood, we did something like this when we invaded Washington in the War of 1812, and that should Dubya finally go down in flames, or up in a puff of fire and brimstone, it’ll be another fine excuse for such a celebration.

The bush bash is nothing more than a huge party, involving anywhere from about 15 TO 300 people: you all leave town at different times, by different routes (assuming your town has more than one road, not a given in some small towns) and rendezvous out in some farmer’s back 40. It is considered friendly-like, but not compulsory, to invite the farmer as well.

You bring beer.

There is a bonfire.

That’s it.

Once, my parents were out at one such bash (yes, respectable-ish middle-aged people go to these things, not just teenagers; the teenagers are all home playing video games and playing on MySpace) with the mayor and the head of the local RCMP detachment. At one point, some uniformed officers materialized and shamefacedly walked over to their boss to tell him that they’d be busting up the bush bash and arresting people, “in about twenty minutes, okay?

Thoughtful of them; the place emptied faster than a can of Moosehead! No arrests were made: the raid found the bash mysteriously empty.

In any case, there comes to the raincoaster blog word that last year’s award dinner for the BC Liquor Distribution government agency was not exactly the picture of decorum. No indeed: it appears that the BC boozefloggers showed an entirely overenthusiastic dedication to the product, with one of the award-winners securing his place in mythology by being too drunk to walk up the short staircase to the podium.

He crawled it. Respect!

drunk crossing

…an unholy combination of circumstances developed at the province’s annual long service awards dinner at Government House that left many guests shuddering. The event turned into such a drunken horror show it took almost a full year of legal wrangling to resolve. The full story, recounted in a recently released arbitrator’s ruling, is a hair-raising tribute to Lt.-Gov. Iona Campagnolo‘s grace in the midst of chaos (and ability to keep a lid on the story of the Party Disaster of the Century).

With 25 years service to Her Majesty on his record, the janitor — let’s call him Party Boy — was given an invitation to the dinner. He checked into the Laurel Point Inn and had four ciders to relax, before attending the pre-reception reception, where he downed four rum and cokes, and two glasses of wine from the open bar. He had four more rum and cokes at Government House.

With 250 guests assembled, including every single one of his bosses from the deputy minister on down, the festivities began…

The lieutenant-governor was at her imperturbable best when she noted at one point during the carnival: “It’s always entertaining when liquor distribution branch employees are receiving awards.”

There must have been video, or otherwise how could anyone have remembered?

what is, like, up with Americans

It’s the cholesteral.

Seriously, though, the way I feel right now, I’d order three of these.

advice for conference-goers

It is a truth universally aknowledged that a young woman at a writer’s conference in possession of a diaper bag must be in need of a baby…or not.

Regardless of the urgings of one’s practical instincts, a diaper bag cannot adequately substitute for a tote bag at a literary conference.

Baudelaire would not be okay with the Hello Kitty motif; or, rather, he would be, but only after a fatal dose of laudanum. Would Blake, Wordsworth, Shakespeare or even, god forbid, Martin Amis, be okay with the idea that their expensively-Kinko’d handouts were stored in a compartment with both #1 and #2? I ask you, eh?

size matters, but not how you think

I got this from Mainichi.com via Fark. It appears that, along with infantile, pervy accessories, giggling behind their fingers, and platform shoes, Japanese women just cannot get enough really, really tiny…

 Huge! Rod! Sale!

sushi.

From the land that gave the world such tiny treats as bonsai, midget submarines and shiploads of quaint consumer goods comes, according to Shukan Bunshun (10/19), the latest example of Japanese miniaturization — single grain sushi!

Single grain sushi is not the latest diet fad to hit the country, it’s just the latest item on the menu at Omoroi Sushiya Kajiki, a sushi restaurant with a sense of humor in Fukuoka

Single grain sushi is sold in plates of 10 or 12 (arranged in a circle with a couple of strips of leek in the middle to form the hands of a clock) and features all the typical sushi, including makimono, tako, tamago, ikura, kohata, anago, ebi, ika, Otoro and kanpachi…

“I do it because the girls love it,” the crafty itamae tells Shukan Bunshun. “I tell ’em I’m gonna give ’em a full serving of sushi and then bring out a plate of the single grain stuff. They laugh and then go on about how cute it looks. Some of ’em take photos of it with their mobile phones. More than anything, though, I do it because I like nothing more than seeing a woman’s smiling face.”

So they laugh and tell you it’s cute? That hasn’t changed any; nobody can get those words out with a straight face.

iPod iPorn

Saudi single seeks same…if not same species

A boy and his goatSo I’m cross-posting this from a comment on Guido’ s site. As he says, if you don’t like it take a full refund and don’t come back. But it was my comment anyway, so I shall paste it here unabashedly, not that I’ve ever been abashed, cuz you all know I’d-a bashed him right back.

My mother worked in the King Fahd hospital in Saudi Arabia back in the 80’s, and one day an unmarried Saudi fellow came in with a diagnosis of a ruptured penis. And for several days he remained in the hospital, taking wincingly painful daily walks in the hallway, drawing a fair bit of attention, as he walked so slowly anyone else could have run a marathon in the time it took him to do a lap around the ward.

Now, unmarried Saudi men are not supposed to be doing anything with their penises that could rupture them. They’re not particularly supposed to notice that they have penises until they’re married, except to ensure the pee isn’t dribbling down their legs.

So the medical transcriptionist was curious. And so was the entire pool of medical transcriptionists. So they asked my mother to find out how it happened, my mother being an unabashed sort (acorn not falling far from tree and all that).

So she did.

She walked up to the doctor who’d examined the patient and asked him point-blank, “So how did that patient rupture his penis? All the typists are dying to know!”

The doctor rolled his eyes, then looked left, looked right, waited till the coast was clear, then leaned in and whispered:

The goat bolted.

sigil of Baphomet