His first lady mother had a lot of “go”
It’s Justin “Luke Wilson’s doublehead” Trudeau
His Ma shtupped Jagger and had some babies off the head big-nob of Canada. That sounds like the set-up to a pun-based joke, but it’s not. Just wanted to point out her high shtuppin’ skills.
As for the son? Mother may I…
So I am on location in Canada, currently writing this heading South towards the US border to head to Seattle, the originator of coffee and coffee-heavy sitcoms involving fraternal psychiatrists walking in and out of rooms while saying the word “Dostoevsky.”
This car trip is being punctuated by semi-regular stops to refresh the car box of TimBits, something I believe I may have discussed in the past in my previous newsletter version of this very blog. And I hope you can agree that this blog is indeed, very. TimBits are what Canadians use to end their lives once they have seen the world for the distressing fiasco it is. Donut chunks, deep fried in sugar, straight out of the fryer and into your arteries. The threat of weaponising these things is all that’s keeping Canada’s sovereign territory safe from invasion. Three or four of those and and your tongue quickly sprouts a protective coat of hair. Five and your heart shoots out your arse, sweating and mewling.
As one mght expect, they taste very good indeed but much like the pulled pork cinnamon French toast with caramelised apples I ate for breakfast yesterday, has no right to exist in a civilised society. It’s all a half step away from turning me into one of those fat lads from the space ship in Wall-e.
Pictured: the author, tomorrow.
When I left you I had just done Vancouver and was setting out towards the Alpine ski resort of Whistler. I’ve never been skiing (still haven’t) but it does look like tremendous fun. Unfortunately I would’ve been on what are known as the “bunny slopes” and my already wilty manhood just couldn’t take the hit. That and it would’ve been $200 dollars plus to listen to a Kiwi film studies drop-out to tell you you need your skis to do “french fries” to speed up and “pizza” to slow on an incline of 1°. Then I stab him in the neck with my ski and ride his corpse down the hill like a tobogan i.e like people from Tobago do.
Top of the list of famous Tobagonians. Hair mah now!
See how worked up I`m getting just thinking about it. That was dark!
In lieu of skiing, I did manage to do some tubing yesterday, sitting in a huge inner tube and sliding downhill spinning into an icy mist while my laminated and very pointy ticket fluttered in my face like an angry Dorito. It is pretty fun actually, though the whole thing was weirdly corporate, the place was sponsored by Coke and they had Summer-themed 80’s music blaring through the sound system. You haven’t experienced snow until you’ve experienced it with Simon Le Bon clucking about how “her name was Rio and she has a swollen gland” or whatever.
To get back up the hill there is an airport style moving walkway which as it turns out is the only known predator of the McLean family. Meaghan’s dad collapsed twice, once ploughing face first into the ground, the other time running in the wrong direction to attempt to pick up her Mom, who herself had fallen into her rubber ring on her first go. On both occasions one of the attendants had to slap the emergency stop grinding the whole apparatus to a shuddering stop. Meaghan’s sister also started to lurch dangerously to the side on one trip up the hill until I caught her and on a separate occasion while walking backwards vanished suddenly and spectacularly from view as she wiped out into a snow drift. It was carnage.
Even one of the Aussies almost lost their leg cracking their long meaty pin off the side of the snow wall.
Meaghan was the only McLean not to wipe out at some point, something she’s not at all boasting about. In comparison, her Dad managed to wipe out at the dinner table, chair collapsing under him after one too many duck fat roasted potatoes (which I was in charge of, somewhat racistly.)
This brings me to a larger point which is that Meaghan’s Dad, in a fashion perhaps similar to myself, is not what one would call a serious man. Some choice quotes from the past week included:
Mark, get your arse branded.
Is that a suck dog or a guffer?
That guy’s a real bear.
Surprisingly not even one of those was intended as gay slang.
In his speech at his eldest daughter’s wedding he gave a long rambling reference to a time the groom was on the news for his reaction to a stabbing that had happened in the area he was hiking. First he jokingly affirmed his confidence that the groom was not in fact the culprit(“everyone deserves their day in court”), then twenty minutes later on in the speech he declared “He sure does like those wooden ducks!” We think it was a joke about whittling with the stabbing knife. But no one has ever been able to be sure, least of all him.
He also managed to confuse all the names of the Aussies, Cheryl became Shirley, Alan became Adam and Bethan became Stefan. In short, he is enormously good value for the bystander.
In other news, Meg’s ring is very loose at the moment with me not having had an opportunity to get it sized (how the hell do people do that anyway? “Hey baby, can you fit this spaghetti hoop on your finger? No? …how about this one?”) Resultantly her Dad has suggested I slip it off in the night and make a break for freedom and Meg has threatened to pawn it for cash money so she can start her new life with her boyfriend Mykonos Stefanopolous.
All great stuff.
Sitting in the queue to get back over the border from Seattle. Will hopefully be onto you next week as long as the notoriously joyless US border guards don’t arrest me for sexually harassing that eagle.
I know what I like.
Doritoner of Leek