Wednesday, January 25, 2012
How Many Yuks Could a...
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
A Song of Vice and Ire
I believe it was Asimov, in his foundational Semi-Loft Suite Trilogy, who claimed that empires die from the extremities, that cold lifelessness slowly tringles its way from the fingers and toes, through the limbs, and straight to the very heart. This I can attest to. My deep study of the Houghton-Mifflin Ancient Civilizations Grade 11 textbook has left me as cynical as to the durations of the works of man as the Solomon of Ecclesiastes, if not quite as susceptible to tickling as the good Teacher. But such are the lessons of these dire manuals. Who can peruse without nostalgia the pictures of long forgotten Empires, rendered as they are with cartoony accuracy and melancholic word bubbles? Et in Arcadia Ego, aye, and in Comic Sans no less! Who, in listing off the fell accomplishments written in the "Did You Know?" panel, blue-bordered like the lips of a thousand mummified Egyptian Kings, does not feel the tingle of despair and hopelessness in all our human endeavors?
Death from the limbs inward! The mighty amalgamated City-Sate of the National Capital Region is, I think, undergoing its last rites in that very manner. Living as I do in one of its extremities (which extremity I leave to your fancy and good taste), I can already feel the cutting off of circulation from the main arteries. Where once, in our glory days, a man could travel whenever he pleased from the far-off Westeros of Stittsville and the Ottawa Valley to the quaint French-speaking stabships of Orleans and Vanier-de-la-Crackhead, the route has since become a perilous endeavour. It was far too long on foot or horse, and the threat of highwaymen, brigandage, and puddle-stains are all too great for all but the most hard-eared ranger.
Public Transportation, the very veins of our intra-statal circulatory system, has all but ceased to function. The schedules may as well be printed in Italian for all the punktlichkeit they signify. If and when you do manage to see a lone OC Transpo, that melancholy ship of the suburbs, chances are greater than not it will be Out of Service, or worse, Hors Service! Yes, the horses get service before you do. But even if one does halt at a Bus Stop for a few precious moments, the riddle of the sphinx is still waiting crouched and hungry for your flesh. Have tickets? I remember going to buy tickets once. A grim old quaker sat at the counter, missing an eye, a leg, a tooth, and, I suspect, a lobe of some kind.
"Eight tickets please. Er, for the OC..."
He eyed me suspiciously and sucked his pipe - an old PVC stuffed with licorice and hot-sauce.
"Eight tickets pleased!" He mocked me, "Aye, and why not Eight trips to Malebolge and Satan's Arse while we're at it? Eight tickets please! Come thee lad, done any ridin' before? I doubt it with those doe-blue eyes! What's that? Hohoho! Via Rail you say! Ahahaha! Hear that Jebediah? Via Rail! Away with your Via Rails, boy! This is a man's hunt. Accursed be the man who rides the OC! Still insist, eh? Very good, 'tis thy funeral. Write him up, Jebediah. Eight tickets! Make your mark, lad, and God be with thee!"
Grasping my purple fold-out sheet, I left the store with a vague sense of dread and a specific cents of 50. I noticed the tickets had changed since last I was in town; the delightful neon blue had been replaced with a dire purple, and with a no logo no less - seemed to be a sort of Death's Head above the outline of a white poodle. Very odd indeed. I made my way to the lone Bus Shelter, and waited the suggested three-hours of "safety time" to ensure I didn't miss the bus by a hair's-breadth. Of course there was the expected four-month delay. I made due with the shelter and a spear I fashioned from a rusty screwdriver and a circus baton which I found in a pile of Tim Horton's cups. I survived mostly on chickadees, squirrels, and roll-up-the-rim Donuts.
Finally, one long, lone night, amid the howl of owls and hooting of turtles, the bus finally pulled up to my little shanty. The door opened and I saw the face of madness - our driver, Captain Jeroboam. A long scar ran down his dark features, and a flashing eye indicated the ticket-receiver. As he handed me the proof of purchase, I saw that his right leg - what they call the "pedal foot" - was made up entirely of dog-biscuit. That evening I was informed by the crew what kind of a made voyage I had undertaken - why the gleaming gold sheen of a Canadian dollar was nailed to the standing pole, waiting for the first crew-member to shout "'Tis he! 'Tis he! 'Tis Tracy Dick, with a muff as white as a snow-hill!" Yes, the Captain had a long standing feud with a beast of the dog-paths; a White Poodle named Tracy Dick, who once peed on his ill-fated limb, causing extreme discomfort. He had it amputated for cosmetic reasons and never forgave the poodle, aye, sought to destroy him with all his might.
Knowing that I would never reach my destination with this Flying Clutchman, I got off at Bayshore Station and never looked back. So much for my shopping trip to the Rideau Centre. I would have to make due with bare, provincial amenities of the Bayshore Shopping Centre. Still I mused on for the sake of my children. Would they even have Bayshore? Would they not be even further cut off from civilization? Might they be bound to the very suburban land they tilled, growing iPhones and gummy-worms for their pointy-shoed feudal overlord? Thus it seems. When I got home, I opened my copy of the Domesday Book and squiggled my name in a good part, somewhere between Knight and Baron - just in case.
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