Shoot the messenger

Editor’s note: Gord has gone off on another mad road trip, the car crammed with beer, smokes, guitars and amps, to inflict himself on unsuspecting and long-suffering relatives and friends all over eastern Canada. To ensure readers don’t miss their regular Thursday morning fix, he has left behind a stash of classics—ancient re-runs that are actually brand new because they were never published back in the day (for good reason) and have not been updated.

Shoot the messenger

By Gord Lovelace (from May 2006)

Ottawa full of clap!
Aw, poop—now we’re in trouble.
The press reports this week new stats showing that, while the number of people smoking has dropped in Ottawa, syphilis rates are way up.
We don’t need a road map to figure out what tobacco-hating Mayor Jimbo Watson will be banning next.
“I am looking forward to an Ottawa that is completely sex-free!” the irritating little harpy will thunder.
“Sex is no longer a victimless act because of the proven dangers of second-hand clap!”
The sex ban will apply first to the workplace, then covered patios, but eventually to cars in which kids are present—throwing a real damper on high school prom night.

‘Release the poodles, Mildred!’
I just can’t believe the Ottawa Citizen ran the name of every sweaty bozo who participated in the big annual waste of collective time known at the National Capital Marathon.
That’s quite the irony—you manage to avoid a charley horse running around pointlessly only to develop a hernia when you scrunch up your eyes to find yourself in a sea of four-point newspaper type.
In much bigger type were the names of a whole bunch of Nigerian runners who made a wrong turn and got lost in the whitewashed enclave of New Edinburgh.
Wrong turn, indeed—it is not healthy to be a black guy running away if a beefy Burgher looks out and sees you anywhere near his BMW or Volvo.
He immediately rushes out and hires you to be an undocumented alien gardener.

A REAL beer run
I might be able to find something good to say about runners if there were any societal payback from this useless exercise in narcissistic self-abuse.
How about this?
I’m a senior who is always out of beer.
Runners want to run.
How about we hook up all the joggers and thirsty suds-drinking seniors with a service in which we call them and they run over to the beer store and hoof us back a six-pack?
The longer-range marathoners could even trot down to the nearest Indian reserve and score us a carton of smokes.

This week’s great T-shirt message.
“I don’t need an SUV—I have a huge schlong!”

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