Once
I dug deep holes for oil,
Holes
for oil, holes for oil,
Once
I dug deep holes for oil,
In Alberta-land.
Digging
narrow, digging deep,
Digging
deep, digging deep,
Digging
narrow, digging deep,
In
Then the price of oil did drop
Oil
did drop, oil did drop,
Then
the price of oil did drop.
In Alberta-land.
And
then we changed the government,
Government,
government,
Then
we changed the government,
In Alberta-land.
Thought
we'd try the NDP,
NDP,
NDP,
Thought
we'd try the NDP,
In Alberta-land.
Free
elections came no more,
Came
no more, came no more,
Free
elections came no more,
To Alberta-land.
Prices
rose but not
the Rose,
Not
the Rose, not the Rose,
Prices
rose but not the Rose,
In Alberta-land.
Free
marketing came to an end,
To
an end, To an end,
Free
marketing came to an end,
In Alberta-land.
Education
camps were built,
Camps
were built, camps were built,
Education
camps were built,
In Alberta-land.
Now
I'm digging wide mass graves,
Wide
mass graves, wide mass graves,
Now
I'm digging wide mass graves,
In Alberta-land.
Digging
shallow, digging wide,
Digging
wide, digging wide,
Digging
shallow, digging wide,
In
*
What do I have to say about Reality?
I guess I've had a passing acquaintance with
him all my life.
People would mention him, and I'd nod. (I
guess that means I had a 'nodding' acquaintance with him, doesn't it?)
People would mention him--Reality--and I'd
say, "Yeah, I know him. I know him well."
I never got into specifics, of course.
He was like some famous guy I knew from tv. A politician
or something.
I'd seen him in person, of course, every once
in a while. Every couple years I'd find myself running into him. Or like seeing him from across a room at a funeral parlour.
We never spoke but I didn't think that
mattered much. Hey, there's some things, some relationships,
that seem to take care of themselves.
He's like a low-maintenance boyfriend.
So I was up late last night drinking and
playing Civilization V when there's a knock at the door. Standing there there's
this guy all in black and he has this big blade thing he's carrying. He says,
in a dry and ashen voice, "Dost thou know me? I am ... Reality."
I said, "Wow. You look very very different
close up!"
*
Downtown Alley, Season
Five Episode Five
After the robbery and shootout the Earl of
Grantham awakens in a puddle of vomit and vows revenge against his neighbour
Lord Gillingham and extended family. Lady Edith tries some new drugs with the
Dowager Countess of Grantham and Isobel Crawley, resulting in a quick visit to
A&E due to a nervous collapse on the part of Isobel. Whilst there, the
Dowager Countess manages to steal many scripts and script-papers. Ivy Stuart
and Beryl Patmore do their taxes to discover they
must work harder, much harder. Lady Mary gives birth to her ninth child,
paternity unknown, and registers the child with social services. The Countess
of Grantham drinks too much and falls asleep in front of the telly, starting a fire which is quickly subdued. The
welfare checks arrive. The Earl of Grantham and Lady Mary rush to the bottle
shop whilst the Countess of Grantham and the Dowager Countess seek out more of
the new drug. Elsie Hughes is robbed at gunpoint. Lord Gillingham acquires a
semi-automatic pistol only to fall asleep and have it stolen by his youngest
son. Lady Edith speed-dials an abortionist. Tom
Branson stands for Labour in the district.
*
"Of all the governmental systems in all the world, she walks into mine. My governmental system,
I mean."
The memorandial briefing
paper slipped from his hands and hit the floor with a thud.
He had spoken aloud, unconsciously, as a
gaffe. He read the glowing neon wired over her head. Official
Opposition.
Why here? Why not
Remember the eighties? Running through manmade
parks happy as the day was long. Taverns with seas of
pilsner. Inappropriate boners.
Had she seen him? Did she know he was going to
be there? Has she forgotten me?
He rose and called out, "House, I want to
table a bill right now. I want it to be a bill to ... get the phone numbers of
all the members present and put them into a directory."
Someone threw a Parliamentary Directory at
him.
"Oh, yes, of course." He sat
blushing down again.
He kicked his desk and wanted to cry.
Faulkner said the past isn't dead. It's not
even past. Of course he also said, "As I Lay Dying."
*
I'm not one for speeches. But this is my daughter
I'm talking about, so.... Waiter, cut that guy off! Too much ... noise here,
yeah. Where was I? My daughter, my daughter.... So let's see.... Of course she
was different, she was my daughter after all. Always moody, always morose, not a joiner,
like, out of touch with the world, you know? We thought it was just
adolescence, didn't we, hon? And then it dawned on
us, or rather there was a dawn that illuminated us as we were standing.... Lost my train of thought. Yes, the doctor. He was all
serious when he told us what was what. But we were: at last! It couldn't have
made us happier. An affliction in the family! My wife and me, we're real
healthy, see? Nothing wrong with us at all. Don't cry!
But still, no good conditions in our so-called happy home. So when the good
doctor said, "It's coeliac disease," we
said--and I quote--"Then it's time for a party!" And so, here we are.
It's a kind of a maturity party, isn't it? I wonder if other cultures do this
kind of thing. Anyway, drink up, and celebrate!
*
The Man Who Couldn't
Not Stop Thinking About Sex
"I went to doctors," he told me.
"There was something wrong with me."
He told me he went to see some doctors about
his condition. Three specialists were called in. What was his problem?
He told them, "It's tearing me apart. I can't seem to not stop thinking about sex."
"That's perfectly normal," said the
first specialist. "More people can't stop thinking about sex."
"That's not it," said my friend.
"I can't keep myself from not thinking about sex."
"O!" said the specialist. "You
wish you could-"
The third specialist said, "Let me get
this straight. You're not thinking about sex all the time, and you want to keep
yourself from not thinking about sex."
The first specialist said, "That's a very
serious problem!"
The second said, "Is it something from
you childhood? From playing doctor with girls?"
"I have no idea. I can't think about it
at all."
The third said, "This is one for the
medical books."
And the first said, "I can't deal with
freaks."
Three days later, my friend was hit my a car. I suspect it was because he was too busy not
thinking about sex.
*
On the 7th of August, the King and his Lady
attended a show of variety acts at the Old Bedford. Much was made by the royal
couple of the performances of Liszt and Handel; after the intermission, a most
curious magic act performed, and the King and his Lady were invited up on stage
to participate in what those "in the know" call "close
magic." On a raised dais there appeared to be five supine forms beneath a
clean linen sheet. The magician drew away this cloth to reveal five lovely
ladies in the altogether. The royal couple were invited to examine carefully
the ladies, leaving no crevice unprobed. After this
examination was performed to everyone's satisfaction, the magician took the
hands of the first lady and raised her to her feet. Where she lay there was now
a snow-white dove. In a similar fashion the magician raised up the other four
ladies, revealing, in turn, a bag of golden coins, three rabbits, a watercolour
landscape painting, and a necklace (which was thereupon presented to the King's
Lady). All agreed it was an astonishing bit of trickery, and the magician was
promised a Baronhood and a
Command Performance in future.
*
Everybody wants to excel, don't they? But
Jones, newspaperman Jones, went farther than anyone.
We couldn't figure out how he could write so
much so presciently. He knew the victims of earthquakes before anyone else did,
he conned out election results first, he was on the scene at fenderbenders and bicycle collisions before anyone else
even knew. Then there was the writing: everything was always perfect. And yet
there were a couple tolls to be paid. He appeared to age quickly, and after six
months of this we, as a group, had to murder him.
That was when we found out what he was doing.
He was ahead of everyone chronologically. He'd built himself a fast plane
capable of going around the world in twelve hours. Every day he'd travel east
to west. Across the International Date Line, he'd wind up one day later. He'd
find the news and send it to us by Internet. Of course he'd look older by the
time he landed to check in at meetings and stuff. Plus he had more time to
write and edit. It was a pretty ingenious plan, always one day ahead. You have
to kill someone who cheats like that.
*
We were on the ninth floor of the big mall at
the corner of Yonge and
She said, "All just chance."
Then I gasped as I gazed. "Did you just
see that?"
She asked, "What?"
I gasped again. "For just the briefest
moment, everyone down there spelled out a name. Just for a second, they all
arranged themselves, almost like pixels on a computer screen, spelling out a
name."
"What name?"
I looked at her. "Your
name. First, last. They all spelled out your name."
She blushed. "You're lying."
"No, I'm not."
This happened twenty years ago. It was enough
to get her to marry me.
I'd lied about it a little. I hadn't dared to
tell her that they'd spelled out her name in cursive
italic.
*
M**p M**p
Wile E. Coyote looks into his cupboard and
sees an open can of imitation roadrunner meat. He sighs.
"Wile E. Coyote has been unsuccessfully
hunting roadrunner for fifty years now. It's not the work he's bothered by.
It's something else."
"I just think it's
hate speech, pure and simple."
FROM YOUTUBE: "M**p m**p"
(bleeped).
"It's a taunt. And it's so obviously
racist."
Coyote with lawyer, at computer, screen shows
lawsuit COYOTE VS ROADRUNNER.
"Mr. Coyote is filing a federal suit
aimed at stopping this abuse. And he can point to recent events."
"We've seen, from
"Law's on his side, says this
credentialed man."
CREDENTIALED
"I'm filing this for my children's
children."
"No roadrunners could be caught up with
for comment."
*
We tied his arms down. I neatly cut down a
couple centimetres from exposed wrist to exposed shoulders and I cut the radius
of the wrists and shoulders. My nurse took the shoulder edges in both
hands--he's a brawny one--and peeled the arm like an unripe banana. I cut a
radius around his thigh and ankles and from each to each five centimetres. My
nurse pulled off the skin of his legs. The screaming didn't bother us. It was
time for some internal surgery. I picked up my rib-cutter.
So long as you don't disturb the circulation
of the blood you can take anything out of a person. I started by cutting out
his kidneys. "Not like you're gonna use 'em anymore, eh Dzhokhar? I'm gonna feed 'em
to my swine."
I cut out one
of his lungs while taping up the holes so he wouldn't pass out.
"I'm
cutting out his tongue," I said. My nurse prepped. I cut out his tongue.
I was attracted
to his hands, so I madly slashed at them both, cutting them to loose chunks of
meat.
We didn't
record the time of death. We tossed him our into the pig trough.
*
(I'll
have to put this on radio somehow.) Yoo-hoo, aliens. We all know you're out
there and that you're hearing me, probably in the distant future, after I'm
dead. I read today that people all over the world are hearing weird noises in
the sky. Is that you? Have you sent some ships already? Well, we know you
haven't developed radio communications yet--for we'd have known about you long
ago. So you can't hear us talking to you--yet. But one day you will. (Maybe
we'll have to introduce you to the technology.) But of course it has to be
said--this is well known--you're incredibly hostile to us, and we should be
incredibly hostile to you.
We'll have our troubles. (Who doesn't?) The zoöcryptology will be difficult on both sides. Then we'll
have the battle of who'll eat whom. Hopefully we'll find each other
indigestible. (Why should we think you'll be carbon-based?) We'll trade our
technologies, we'll introduce you to Shakespeare and Beethoven and you'll introduce
us to whatever gawdawful crap you read and listen to.
Sure we'll have some major compatibility issues. But we'll all be Christians I
guess so it'll be cool in the end.
*
This
is another day of a life that's being wasted away by me.
I
have nothing to look forward to. I have no kids (and I never will), I have no
car (and I never will), and I have no house (and I never will).
I
have thinning hair, an occasional pain in my side, scabby feet, too much shit,
and my eyes are going downhill.
In
fifty years, no-one will even know I ever existed; in fifty years, no-one will
know how often I wished myself dead.
Apparently
I'm supposed to realized we're all in the same boat that's going nowhere even
though it's following a chart we can all easily see everywhere we look.
But
you know that's other people. It's
not me. So it doesn't count.
I'll
go to sleep in a couple hours and wake up again and again and again, with the
problem of death getting graver and graver every day.
Oh
and I haven't mentioned my blood pressure is high.
So
what is this beast I'm pointlessly clinging to? How do I manage to get out of
bed? Why do I go in to work every day? Why am I writing this fourth-wall break?
*
"This war is going badly, men," said
Major Jack Dodds to his boys. "We're incapable
of discerning what the enemy is likely to do. Really, we have no idea. He's
said something about exterminating us all, but that can't be the case. They'd
have to be ... I don't know ... barbarians or something. (Apologies
to those of you who self-identify as barbarians, BTW.) In any case, we
know that we are the problem, not
them. So: the enemy is out there, looking at us, hating us ... reasonably. But
what can we do about it? We're broadcasting our self-loathing day and night,
we're practically giving them out nuclear codes so we can be blown up in our
sleep, and yet.... So, the enemy is up to something--apologies for the binarism--and we want to help him do his thing, but we have
such bad intelligence we don't know how to help him. This is the dilemma of
modern war. We're studying the methodology of mass suicide, I'll let you well
know. We're trying to make it somehow 'sporting.' Until that time, my door is
always open. Come on in and have a good cry whenever you want to."
*
I have heard a touching though unverifiable
story about this Melephenes of Rhodes. It seems he
had an unsanctioned appetite for a lovely by the name of Helenios.
At a banquet they managed to slip away undetected and make it to the beach of a
lake where many swam unclothed. Melephenes and Helenios were unable to disrobe, however, for naked bathers
were (and are) sacred to Helios, and they didn't need that kind of pressure. So
they swam in their underthings, petting one another subaqueously. Abandoning the beach, they sought a grotto
for their pleasures but could not find a spot isolated enough for naught but
pomegranate and plantain polishing and probing: interesting enough, but not
completely satisfying. The day was getting on. They were expected back by their
respective spouses. Helenios decided to change out of
her soggy drawers at a handy change-room for women. Melephenes,
outside, decided to surprise her. He entered the change-room and drew back the
curtain of the stall: there was Helenios, entirely
naked. She didn't move to cover herself. Melephenes
let the curtain drop, and waited outside. For the rest of his life he regretted
his caution. It would have been a wonderful fuck.
*
It all came to pass. Nuclear
winter. Most of the plants and animals died. We reverted to barbarism.
My name is Max so they call me Mad Max. Seems there was a movie called Mad Max
way back when. I've heard the story a thousand times, the stories of that movie
and the 'sequels.' They were all driving around like crazy, just like we're
doing today. All we have are the oil refineries. We're living in tribes and
stuff: apparently that was all in the movies too. We barrelhouse all over the
place, there's only oil and gas, no electricity. The movie-makers were pretty
prescient. Water's a commodity, and women are a commodity too. We fight like
hell over them. I'm pretty sure that some Troy-like battle is going to erupt
over some babe any day now. We plan our battles at night by kerosene. We're an
ugly and nasty lot. We've got good cooks, though. They can make even the most gristly lad palatable. That's it: meat, meat, meat. I
understand the movies were wrong about this. They didn't eat people! Can you
believe it? It was one of our first adaptations to this environment. Would have
died otherwise....
*
I have been asked to elucidate rumours, for
the elucidation of rumours is the name of my game, concerning the Menippean custom of toenail sacrifice. Though I shall not
reveal the sacred origins of the custom, I can describe the ritual, allowing
the braver amongst you to risk the anathema that may result from defying the
everlasting Gods.
Toenail clippings are never discarded. Each
citizen of Menippia, male and female, free and slave,
is taught to preserve his clippings as records no less vital than ties of
kinship and caste are to those of us in the civilized world. Each individual
collects his clippings in a hinged box suitable to his station--some are of
plain sandalwood, some are ebony with lacquered inlay mosaic--which is kept not
near the household shrine but rather near his bedding place. The box need not
be taken on brief journeys if one believes he will return home before his
toenails need clipping--but woe betide any who clip their toenails not within
sight of their boxes!
The boxes are eventually buried, box and all,
with the ashes of the cremated individual. The cemeteries allow each individual
a plot equal to thrice box size.
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