Day 1

10:15 am: A co-worker is washing the blue chest plates used to teach CPR. He keeps repeating under his breath, “Die. Die. Die.” I am unsure if he is speaking to the chest plates or me.

He suggests we take a coffee break. I agree. The coffee tastes bad.

10:25 am: Reading the paper. All the CD Reviews have got three stars. I think somebody is not being critical enough.

12:08 pm: Hair cut. Hairdresser tells a story about his friend’s new cabin. It used to belong to the town dentist. In the basement, they found dozens of jars of teeth the dentist got from his patients. As a bonus, the haircut turned out pretty well.

3:50 pm: I realize the future predicted in the Robert Zemeckis film Back to the Future II is five years away. Hear that Science? Where’s my hoverboard?

3:07 pm: “Unfriend” Barack Obama on Facebook.

3:15 pm: Watch a young viking in a bandana enter the vestibule of my office building, presumably to discuss car insurance. Muse for a moment how out of step I am with other members of my generation. Suspect it is mostly because I use words like vestibule.

5:58 pm: Arrive at where I am house sitting. Find a pile of cash on top of a sheet of instructions. A bottle of Wild Turkey has been left for me.

8:14 pm: After many glasses of Wild Turkey, I consider my options. Couch or the public. I grab another glass of bourbon and my rain-jacket.

9:15 pm: I wait for the bus and look at the house where my great grandparents lived. The house has long since been sold.

9:35 pm: Reminded that I am in dangerous territory. Fell or something. Obviously not important.

9:40 pm: There is a girl, no older than 16 riding the train with a mess of groceries in her arms. I feel for her. I glance for her on the platform. She is gone. Like she never existed.

9:45 pm: I see a train. I wonder if the time it takes to reach the platform is enough time for a couple truly in love, to finish a orgasm. Counting the seconds, I decided “maybe.”

9:55 pm: The bus driver and passengers are plotting. There are dozens of balloons. The driver runs out and places the balloons on the hood of a near-by car. It takes ages.

1:55 am: Back at home after the club. Hazy memories. Saw some bands. Talked to some people perhaps. Don’t remember. Ate lots of midnight pizza.

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Dear Swiftcover Insurance, and by extension, Iggy Pop

Swiftcover, the madness must stop.

When I’m watching television, every time the scheduled programing ends, there’s Iggy Pop, angry and shouting about insurance.

Swiftcover, no matter how much ad-time you’ve purchased, it won’t make your insurance products any more interesting to the general public.

Why do you believe a gaunt, sinewy rock star that resembles a breast-less Wicked Witch of the West is the best possible face for your company? Your company is not that rebellious or it wouldn’t be turning a profit.

You’d be better off having the gnarled wreckage of  car with the spongy crimson remains of a driver hanging out of it with bottle of Jack Daniels in one barely-attached hand as a spokesthing. The wails of the family choking to death on each other’s vomited blood in a crushed minivan opposite would be preferable to hearing Iggy Pop utter, “It’s time to r-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-d-d-d-d-e” ever again.

Just so you know…

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

To the Quiet Broken Fridge

Soon our time will be over. Today, someone suggested I carry you out of here by myself. I politely explained it would too great a task and I would need help. Then I said, “I’ll only be able to do it is if it is in parts.”

I was serious. There is a hammer in the hallway.

The kitchen looks like you vomited all over it. There is a crummy feeling where the good used to be. Everything went bad when you walked away from our relationship. The kitchen stinks and I think you are a douche bag. Ruiner!

I’ll never trust your kind ever again. I should have known better. It’s not like your type hasn’t given up on me before. I naively thought you were better than that. I naively thought you were committed.

Though I hate to admit it, I’m finding it extremely difficult to live without you in my life. But don’t think for a minute that I can’t manage to survive without you. The bitter taste of your betrayal keeps me going.

Sooner or later I’m going to need to eat. That will force me to clean the kitchen…I’ll feel bad all over.

Why?! Why have you done this to me?

Sincerely,

Fergis

PS: I wish I could quit you.

To Club-Goers With Their Unhappy Faces On

Occasionally, I’ll put down my pen and glass of bourbon and head for the Avenue for some Whyte night life. There’s nothing quite like waiting outside a club in the Canadian winter for 30 minutes out to consume $6 draft beer and dance a little.

What could be better? Well, there seems to be a growing number of people on the weekends wearing their unhappy faces. These people in the latest styles dancing and drinking while looking as if they just came from a funeral. Don’t worry beautiful sad people, your cat didn’t die in a microwave, your mom still hasn’t found those spring break videos you made after drinking tequila for the first time,  and your boss hasn’t discovered you haven’t finished any work since you’ve started your job. There is no reason to look so upset.

Perhaps some people realize the promise of drunken casual sex and bathroom coke won’t rescue them from themselves, yet continue to engage in the nightlife out of habit. Who knows? Just try to look amused when I throw up on your shoes…

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Dear Chocolate Milk

My grandma told me that you came from brown cows. I believed that for a long time. Maybe I still do. I’m not sure. I’ve never seen cows giving chocolate milk. I live in a big city. No cows.

Most parents hate it when their kids order chocolate milk in a restaurant and proceed to blow bubbles in it. I always blew bubbles in my chocolate milk. Restaurant owners must like blowing bubbles in chocolate milk or they wouldn’t provide customers with straws in every glass served.

I rarely buy straws anymore. Not because I don’t like them, but because I always forget to put them on my shopping list. I should start drinking milkshakes again. I’d remember to pick up straws. Milkshakes are hard to drink without a straw.

Anyways, I am writing to tell you that I got too drunk last night while watching one of my favourite Alberta bands. They are called the Dudes. If you had ears I’d suggest that you listen to them. Later, I spent a portion of the night worshiping the porcelain altar, engaging in the big cough. It sucked. In the morning my mouth was dry and my stomache was sore.

I tried some water but it wasn’t delicious enough. So, I drank some chocolate milk and I felt better. Much better.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

To Brett Ratner, director of X-Men: the Last Stand

Hello,

I spent two hours of my life watching the aforementioned film. My only thoughts swimming around my head are of your apparent distaste for making films and your stunning greed. You managed to make a premise consisting of super-powered mutants boring. That requires a deeply-rooted childhood problem with comic books and fun. Go back to making racial exploitation movies like Rush Hour 2, you evil monster.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Open letter to my 18-year-old self

Hey bucko,

You might be feeling kind of strange lately. That’s because Warthog Ale and motion sickness pills (MSPs) don’t mix. It seems like a good idea at first but you’ll realize that your judgement has been impaired for sometime when you finally sleep with Mann’s girlfriend. That’s another thing. Don’t sleep with Mann’s girlfriend, no matter how great an idea it seems like at the time. Sort of like the Warthog/MSPs cocktail. The more I think about it, the more I come to realize that the two elements are probably more connected than is tolerable.

Avoid both like the plague. Instead, move away from the city before going to college. It may be frightening at first but it turns out for the best.

Remember when you threw up on the hood of that black Navigator on your 18th birthday? Nothing bad ever comes of it. Kudos.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy