I just clicked on the Grey Cup game
and got the heebie jeebies.
When I was a kid, relatives of mine, who I never liked,
would regale polyester clad rye and seven swillers at curling club parties with stories of Grey Cup shenanigans and debauchery.
They would go on about the great train trips
to exotic places like Winnipeg and Hamilton
I can still picture dentures slipping out of mouths,
spittle flying all over the room, as they got drunker and drunker, middle-aged dentists and mill foremen
over the nubile, rock ‘n’ roll teenage daughters of their second cousins,
and me, standing somewhere in a dark corner wondering, ‘How the fuck did I get born into this?’
Knowing them as well as I did, I could not imagine a more horrifying experience than being caught in a drunken sea of tens of thousands of such creatures.
Should I get filthy rich before they die, I’ll commission HR Giger and Ralph Steadman to point these scenes.