I feel a certain fellowship with that gun-toting guy who videoed himself bravely blowing his daughter’s laptop all to hell for some perceived slight.
Were it not for my firmly-held views that guns should be in armories (and teenage daughters in nunneries), the carnage in my house would be gruesome.
It’s not about computers, because every one I own generally blows itself away in a regular suicidal reaction to my complete cluelessness about how the bloody things work. I don’t know RIM from RAM and assume a megabyte is the output of the horse flies that hang out around the outdoor commode at our fishing camp.
No, it’s somewhat older technology that makes my blood boil, TVs and radios that spout absolute flapdoodle disguised as balanced news. I would be replacing the hardware all the time where it not for the fact that the most dangerous assault weapon I generally have close to hand is my beloved, if less than lethal, bamboo backscratcher.
(There is, granted, the omnipresent beer in the other hand, but I belong to a cult that forbids the intentional spilling of ale, even in the case of justifiable cause that warrants sending a glass winging across the room in the direction of some empty-headed broadcaster’s face and/or voice.)
Every retiree needs a hobby, but I’ve been doing this for so many years that I long ago included it in my resume under the “Hobbies and Outside Interests” section—“Yells at CBC a lot.”
Don’t get me wrong. Retired newspaper editors like me yell at all media newscasts because the vacuous baritones on the anchor desk constantly murder the English language with hilarious breaches of style that brought serious unpaid suspensions for offenders during my time served in the business.
They say things like “the budget was cut in half” when they mean “by half” (if someone cuts your steak portion in half, you still have the same amount of steak, but it’s easier to eat. If he cuts your portion BY half, you’re going to be hungry.)
Hell, I expend at least 10 yells a day on the strange and ubiquitous expression “going forward” as in “the company said that, with the strike over, it will now, going forward, be able to resume producing widgets”. I have no idea what this means, because it certainly doesn’t take anything away if not included—it seems to be a slightly-less offensive version of the equally useless interjection “like, y’know”.
The CBC gets my special attention beyond stylistic affronts because it is the last safe haven for aging Boomer newspersons who just can’t shed the wrinkled skin of political correctness and misguided timidity they all learned back in the 60s.
Just this week, the People’s Network black hole that sucks up $1-billion in my tax revenues every year (I am the only person in Canada who pays taxes) went into major umbrage mode because an immigrant couple don’t like our laws. They will now have to spend three years getting into this country the bastard son born to a 14-year-old relative because they, like y’know, going forward, raised him but didn’t think he was worth adopting back home.
Oh, please. Let’s do the proper family reunification thing by sending the whiners back home to do something legal for a change.
The same newscast featured the sad story of alleged citizens now forced to return to Canada full-time because they can no longer afford to live better in newly reality-challenged Greece than we native-born Canadians live here in the frozen north. This is apparently a great and tragic development for these true maple leaf patriots who normally visit only to get hip replacements and other medicare procedures before returning to a life of ouzo and olives.
Remember where you read this first, as another prime example. When the next federal budget is tabled, the CBC will have already picked out its “typical Canadian family” to be featured as being devastated by the cutbacks.
It will be a single welfare mom with six children sired by six different fathers and she will sit teary-eyed before the cameras in her social housing unit bemoaning a future that makes it even more difficult to afford her takeout coffee, imported beer and weekly lottery tickets.
I will, of course, of course, yell at her. Also at the pinko commentators crying about a dumb bastard videoing himself with a loaded handgun in a drug den for his Facebook page who got a mandatory three-year sentence (I think he should have got five years for the gun and another five for being on Facebook.)
Later on in every newscast, I will yell at Peter Mansbridge, again, as he tries to control his libido and innuendo during always-embarrassing exchanges with the British-accented weather blonde out in B.C.
But a real handgun moment was a bit on Ottawa CBC radio a few days back extolling the virtues of a new program that was teaching elementary kids how to play golf (especially “under-privileged” and “immigrant” children.)
The rationale is that this study will socialize these children by introducing them to the slothful wonders of a rich man’s waste of productive time that wouldn’t normally be available to them because their economic circumstances limit them to working hard for a living, like me.
This is what happens when you pay teachers and CBC reporters so much money that they actually think that golf is normal and students can aspire to pissing away their money, integrity, marriages and the economic future of the country just like the millionaires going broke because of mandatory bar minimums at their local country clubs.
I never allowed my own kids to play golf or other rich sports like tennis and polo because they might have liked it and the entire family would now be living in a cardboard refrigerator box under a bridge somewhere. (They never got to taste other evils like scotch, caviar or Kobe beef, either.)
No, I raised them on real working-class sports we could afford on our piddling six-figure income. They had their milk cartons to stand on when they started playing shuffleboard at the National Press Club while still in kindergarten. I bought them their own $40 pool cues when they were just mere tads. They were equipped with the finest $15 rods when I took them fishing.
That obviously worked, because their sport of choice for my daughter’s recent birthday was an evening of bowling long after working hours wearing rented shoes. I could not be more proud.
Compare that with poor struggling Boris and Magda Shovelsnowoff, whose kid will come home from school to announce he needs $3,000 in Tiger Woods clubs so he can do his homework at Pebble Beach.
But, enough. Gotta go. Rex Murphy is scheduled to do a rant on the National, likely some sort of homespun bitching about the cost of paying a voice tutor to thicken his Newfie accent after living for 40 years in Taronto, bye.
I gotta make sure I get back from the can in time to yell at him.