Canada Land

I have recently returned from an excursion to CanadaLand and a friendlier more hospitable place you’d be hard pressed to find. We rented a car to assist us in getting about and when I booked it over the interweb I opted for a Yaris or similar thinking a small car would be easier to navigate through unfamiliar city streets. After going through the bits and pieces with the Avis girl and collecting the keys we were surprised to see that our car was much larger than we had anticipated. It wasn’t a Yaris it was a mahoosive Dodge Charger and only similar to a Yaris in so much as it had four wheels an engine and people could sit in it. I’d never driven a car so big and quickly developed a pain in my neck from trying to keep an eye on both wing mirrors. It was more akin to sailing a boat than driving a car. Thankfully we also rented a satellite navigation system, which I christened Brigit, so I only had to point the bow and steer.

Toronto is a great city, a big city, and much like any other big city there is plenty to see and do. We went to see Casa Loma which was built by the infamous Canadian architect E. J. Lennox, who was the two ends of a bastard by all accounts. He was commissioned by Sir Henry Pellatt who made his fortune from hydro power and wanted a house fit for a king so Lennox built him a castle on the proviso that Lennox could build a house out of whatever materials were left. Lennox being the cute hoor that he was put himself in charge of purchasing the materials and low and behold he had enough left over to build a wee mansion for himself. In the end Pellatt lost all his money, and his big house, and ended up living in squalor in a basement flat with his driver. A sad story no doubt but I found it very difficult to give a fuck. Casa Loma is now used as a movie set being most famed for being the school for gifted mutants in the X Men movies. I saw no mutants when I was there I’m sad to report although there was one guy with a clubbed foot.

I met this delightful old gentleman in a hotel bar in Toronto. I had just popped in for some much needed libation after a visit to the Bata Shoe Museum only to be treated to some excellent piano playing from a 92 year old man. I was in the bar on my own or so I thought and gave the music very little attention until the bar man wandered off with a glass of orange juice and as my gaze followed him I noticed two things. The first thing I noticed was the piano and the second thing I noticed was the aged gentleman’s hands splayed across the keys. I gave him my full attention for the duration of his set and when he finished he joined me at the bar. He was originally from Switzerland and had moved to Canada in the early fifties. He had lived alone all his life and loved playing the piano. He was currently domiciled in a retirement home round the corner and liked to come out of an evening and play the piano. The bar we were in was one of only two bars in Toronto that had a piano and would let him play. He was a fascinating old man who in his own words had spent far too long alone but hadn’t yet given up the search for a wife.

From Toronto we headed to Niagara Falls via Niagara On The Lake and the Whirlpool on the advice of an Irish bus driver we had met. He wasn’t wrong it was a lovely drive and beat the hell out of driving on the expressway. The Falls are amazing but the town not so much. On leaving Niagara Falls heading for Montreal we put our trust in Brigit but the sleek electronic omnipotent bitch has no comprehension of visas. As I sailed the Dodge onto the bridge we could see the American Flag fluttering at the far end. We knew we were in trouble, Brigit knew all about borders we could see on her screen that the USA was on the far end of the bridge but could we fuck turn the car around and go back the way we came. The US border patrol man who stopped us made us feel as welcome as a bad bout of botulism. He cared not for our excuses nor our accusatorial pointing towards Brigit. He told us to park the car and enter the immigration building and wait to be processed which we did. As we entered the building a big sign detailing the border patrol mission statement stated that everybody would be treated with dignity and respect. It quickly became apparent that the border patrol men working here had never read this mission statement. I never met such a spectacular shower of cunts in my life and I have met some cunts. Fat shaven headed power tripping donut eating fuck pigs the lot of them. I have no time for the American establishment and these festering fucktards only served to bolster that opinion. It was over three hours before we were allowed to turn around and go back to Canada. The Canadians on the other hand were only delighted to see us and it took less than five minutes to explain our situation and get moving again.

We eventually arrived in Montreal many hours later, moored the Dodge and fell asleep. On waking and wandering through the early morning city streets the hassle of the previous day seemed a distant memory. Montreal is a wonderful place with an eclectic mix of old and new, of French and Canadian a veritable Hodge-Podge of styles and cultures. Where everyone greets you in French and when met with my blank thousand yard stare quickly switch to English. Where the locals converse in both languages constantly and with such ease, often asking questions in French and answering questions in English. It’s a great city for just sitting back in a café or restaurant and listening and watching. There is a vivid sense of self in Montreal it has a feeling of being entirely self actualised. It knows what it is and the people who live there are obviously very proud of their bilingual heritage but not in the least bit force full with it. If you can speak French they’ll speak French if you can’t then English is just fine too.

On reflection we should have spent longer in Montreal and less time in Toronto and if we ever go back which is very possible I think we’ll skip Toronto altogether and head straight to Montreal. The Canadian people we met were accommodating, friendly, quick witted and open and seemed genuinely thrilled that someone had taken the trouble to holiday in their fine country. But hey why wouldn’t we sure it’s just like America but without the Americans!

You Can Love Your Mom, Just Don't LOVE Your Mom...

AN OHIO teen was severely traumatized after discovering the stars of a downloaded porno flick were none other than his own parents.

Timmy Shannon, 17, recalls the moment that scarred him for life. "I was like five minutes into this porno called Horny House Wives 4, when I thought to myself, 'Hey, that couch looks exactly like the one I'm sitting on. Oh crap, it is!' I remember the horror overcoming me when I realized the woman bent over that couch was my mother, and the guy giving it to her was my father. I instantly pulled my pants back up and vomited."

Christ on a bike can you imagine that. There you are happily tugging away walloping the head of your micky off the top of your knee when all of a sudden the flange you've been staring at is none other than your mothers ould winyagog. Jaysus can you imagine sitting there staring at your mothers glory hole, limp cock in hand, thinking "wow I crawled out of that...."

CHRIST ON A BIKE ....