Well boy howdy, we’ve had one heckuva year!
We started off the 2017 by being nearly out of dry firewood which is an annual tradition. That was super fun. Sometimes the stuff that looks like smoke is steam, it turns out. We just started speaking with a Finnish accent around the house and enjoying the sauna-like atmosphere.
Since winter went on until June 22nd we hunkered down and ate bark soup until the Solstice at which point we limbered up the BBQ with a piece of meat we found in a snowbank around April 14th. Not sure what it was but it looked quadrupedal. We only found 3 legs but we extrapolated the fourth given our knowledge of the animal kingdom. I said Civet Cat. Merm said ‘some sort of ruminant’. Delish at any rate.
During the summer I perfected the art of clearing the driveway of lawn clippings with the tractor, never once having to employ the blower. I drank beer and operated heavy machinery — Check to another bucket list item. This is technique brings a major lifestyle improvement which I heartily endorse. There are always sufficient grass clippings in evidence to warrant ‘just one more beer’. One also has the option to ‘accidentally’ blow more grass onto the driveway. (This one stroke of brilliance lofts me from dunce to genius in one fell swoop).
September: Somehow our septic system was filled utterly to bursting within 365 days of its last industrial evacuation. We here at the Lovenest are on a 3 year cycle. I shortened this to two knowing how completely fullovit we are; yet with all that we were chockers within 12 months. The Suck-Tech was suitably impressed and said as much. He mentioned the impressive quantity of paper that appears to get used. My wife, a logger’s daughter believes that Alders, the very foundation of paper manufacture to be a mere ‘weed tree’ created by Mother Nature specifically for Facelle Royale. Whatever the case, the rule of thumb is ‘one tree per pee’.
September also had us becoming Grandparents for the second time with the birth of Parker Robert Alexander Ditrich on Sept 10. After 5 or 6 days without a minute of sleep, looking like inmates at Gitmo, both his parents came to the conclusion that Parky is a colicky baby. At time of writing he has only slept once, on October 11th, from noon to 12:20 pm. The rest of this 90 day period he has spent awake and crying, either suffering diarrhea or badly constipated. We therefore decided to leave town.
PART TWO:
Biba Las Begas – The Highlights
November: We went to Las Vegas, Nevada, USA, for the first time (those of us on the inside call it ‘Vegas’). At ‘Paris’ hotel we were comforted by the realization that it is really a lot like the West Edmonton Mall minus the masturbating, feces hurling Rhesus monkeys, but thoughtfully filled down to neck level with cigarette smoke.
Our travelling companions were Tobin the Gull and Lori Frank, who showed us a great time. As we returned home from one particularly excellent night of fun & frolic I found that I could glance left to the window and see, in addition to Gull’s hirsute butt crack (visible due to some techincal issues involving refreshments), a Pyramid & the Eiffel Tower! Normally 5500 kilometers apart from each other they were now about $7 by taxi. Far superior to the originals because they are located where Freedom, Liberty and Sugar Twin are so readily available.
We attended the ‘Dueling Piano Bar’ at Harrahs, the very seat of high-brow entertainment on the Las Vegas Strip. One of the pianists performed a poignant rendition of ‘My Baloney Has a First Name, It’s O-S-C-A-R – My Baloney Has a Second Name, It’s M-A-Y-E-R’. Enraptured delight erupted from the gathering of cognoscenti and literati, recently emerged from their camper-vans, and I felt a shiver run through me. It was a feeling hard to put into words yet I still try.
One reveler made attempts to Pole Dance on a patio umbrella. Twice he came close to bringing it down directly on my head. I had to conclude that he was just trying to be inclusive, doing his best to brain injure me severely enough that we two could have something in common.
We were so emotionally moved that we found it necessary to depart posthaste. As Merm made her way to the exit I watched her forced into the most appalling do-se-do serpentine down a phalanx of paunchy men who persist in buying t-shirts in the same size they wore when the bromide emblazoned on it was in vogue. That is to say, 1970. I refer to boldly splashed witticisms along the lines of ‘Ass, Grass, or Cash – Nobody Rides for Free’, stretched taut over a globose gullet like a tarp spiked down over a manure pile. I imagined an unjust universe where even a shoeless and freezing woman could be desperate enough to shag this fat goober for an Uber.
They were square dancing to ‘Old Age Rockin’ Roll’, unwashed musical savages all, their wives nearby sporting knitted Phentex Fascinators, ink dabbers unsheathed like Brutus’ shiv on the Ides of March. Bingo Wings flapping militantly, dentures clicking with naked aggression, they glared malevolently at my slim and beautiful, spinning, nauseated, now panicked wife. Behind their eyes were the dark embers of jealousy glowing ever hotter as they remembered themselves singing along to ‘Like a Virgin’ with a straight face, before those regrettable boxcars full of WOW Chips and the attendant Olestra induced anal leakage.
Happily we had one evening in particular that was excellent enough to offset any imaginable downer. We found a genuine Vegas lounge, owned and operated by its former Mayor Oscar, and the site of many blurry adventures, I am sure. Within that lounge was a singer, Joe Pesci’s body-double (“Larry Liso”), who sang Sinatra all night long and sent me into paroxysms of sheer unadulterated joy. The Velveeta ran smooth and luxuriant that night. Trying to impress the ladies he challenged Gull to a macho chest hair competition during his Tom Jones set. When he saw my awe inspiring Czechoslovak Berber he tripped-up singing the ‘Green Green Grass of Home’ and yelped, “Jesus Christ!!” I helpfully ad libbed lyrics along the lines of ‘Lips so red / and chest so hairy’ and got him back on track. There were no challengers after my impressive display.
We are now into December, quite busy socially but I have managed to slot in our annual deep and gloomy depression just in time for the Yule. Because we’re so tight for time this year we may have to split our traditional psychotic darkness into two or three parts. We are still pretty sure we can ruin Christmas dinner if we play this right – but anyway we can employ the oppressive spectre of ‘forced gaiety’ to mar nearly any occasion. Even St. Paddy’s Day can be a tremendous buzzkill if you do it right!
Wishing you a Merry Christmas, a Happy Hanukkah, and all a great 2018.
VRD
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