Letters To Bump

Dear Bump,
I just finished watching an episode of Laurel & Hardy. They wrapped up the story with this little gem. “The Moral of the story is, never beat a child on an empty stomach”


This line seemed to come out of nowhere, spoken by a child actor who had nothing to do with the story. It was like the director needed a punch line to conclude the story. That was the line he chose?!?

It was odd and spectacular and wrong all it once. It was also... hilarious!

As I’m sure I will tell you often; If it’s funny, it’s funny. When it comes to humor, your only concern should be to know how your laughter may affect others and when it’s appropriate to laugh out loud.

Never let anyone tell you that you can’t find something funny. Humor isn’t just about laughter. Sometimes it allows us to live through the pain we were living in.





We’re off to watch you do back flips in the placenta. Soon we’ll know if you’ve got girly bits or if you're smuggling an anaconda.

See you soon.

Hot or Not

Regardless / Using irregardless to mean regardless.

Tom Waits Songs / Covers of Tom Wait songs

Creed Reunion / Creed break-up (The greater of two evils that ensures the propagation of more creed-like bands)

Cassius Marcellus Coolidge, painted “Dogs Playing Poker”/ NGC Curator who dedicated an entire room to a con artist and his two boulders.

Justin Bateman / Bale as Batman

Because / Using “for the simple fact that” to mean because.

East Coast Accents / Straight Out Compton Ontario Accents

Infomercials / Commercials

Poontang / Tang

Pants. Normal pants / Skinny jeans

Fireplaces / Natural Gas Faux-Fireplaces (impostor!)

Actual News / News tickers that distract me from listening to the news

Canadian health care / Americans that claim I'm unhappy with my health care.

Dear Bump

Dear Bump,its 7:41 am. Your mom is in the bedroom and wherever she goes, you go. Get used to it, I suspect you’ll want to be around her even when you’re not umbilically contracted to do so. She’s pretty fun and she’s one of only a handful of people who will always have your best interest at heart

We’re at the boss’ cottage today. I am buried in the corner of the most comfortable sectional ever. It’s like a bog of pillows and blankets and you just have to trust that when you sit down, your head will stay above ground level. I’ve never been hugged by Della Reese, but I suspect it would feel like this couch does.

The view here is quite striking, a tree fort overlooking the lake. There are four loons on the lake this morning; it’s like watching an episode of The View. They’re all talking at once and none of it makes any sense.

It’s the second coolest thing that happened to me this week. I felt you kick a few days ago... I had my hand on your mom’s tummy and your foot ran up the palm of my hand I pictured you doing calisthenics to pass the time. Not everyone feels the baby kick at 19 weeks but I expected it.

Karma’s had it in for me since 77, and I’m pretty excited to pay it back with interest.

You’re going to be a handful.

Whiskey

• Whiskey. I didn’t buy you. I rented you for a few hours.
  


• Whiskey. I picked you up at the liquor store and dropped you off in the police station parking lot.
  


• Whiskey. You are the reason the 20 minute car ride home took 90 minutes but felt like 10 hours. Like sitting through a Wayans Brothers comedy.
  


• Whiskey. I will never eat a hotdog ever again because of you.
  


• Whiskey. You are the reason Mrs. Stamina gave me a concussion while shoving my head out the car window.
  


• Whiskey. You are 1956 Renault Dauphine. 0 to 60 in 32 seconds. It takes you a while to get going… and once you do, nobody wants to be around you.
  


• Whiskey. I broke a rocking lawn chair because of you. A two-seater. Come to think of it…. I should blame the hotdogs for that one.
  


• Whiskey. I wasn’t dry heaving. I was practicing my Mountain Gorilla mating call.
  


• Whiskey. You turned my poo into roofing tar.
  


• Whiskey. I feel like a Mountain Gorilla raped me.
  


• Whiskey. You seemed so affordable in the store and yet, I felt like I kept paying for you.
  


• Whiskey. You are the reason I took a brief nap on the front lawn of a perfectly planned community with nature in mind.
  


• Whiskey. They should make perfectly planned communities with alcoholics in mind.
  


• Whiskey. You are the reason I asked the Pharmacist for a morning after pill when what I really wanted was a hangover pill I can take in the morning.
  


• Whiskey. You ruin Sundays… but for a few fleeting moments, your Saturdays are pretty glorious.
  


• Whiskey. Tell all the kids at the birthday party that Uncle Jetson doesn’t feel like playing soccer on the hottest Sunday in August.
  


• Whiskey. Oh we will meet again… but next time things will be different.
  
  

THE HILL

There was a time when I landscaped for the uber-rich. One particularly wealthy couple had a master bedroom that was a completely separate wing of their home. It was a giant edifice constructed on a 40ft elevation, surrounded by a hill with a 45-degree angle. We knew it simply as The Hill. The most feared place to mow in all of Rockliffe Park.

Every Friday at 3pm, it was my job to mow The Hill. Rain or shine. It was so steep that it could not be tackled vertically. Instead, it had to be mowed in a horizontal pattern like one of those spiral mountain paths in a children’s book.

I dreaded The Hill. I mean I really f%cking dreaded The Hill.

Not because of the wicked-bad burn in my quadriceps but because it was a mind field of dog feces. Allow me to better explain in a tasteful Haiku.

5 pure bread doggies
On A Eukanuba diet
Shitting on a hill

The Hill was a very contentious area for the staff. Housekeeping believed that it was Landscaping’s job to clean up the shit and vice versa. As a result, the shitstacles (or poo obstacles) grew exponentially until it was pretty much a public health issue.

Still though, Friday at 3pm. Rain or shine. Jetson Vs. The Hill.

The last time I ever mowed The Hill was on a rainy day in September of 1993.

I set the mower high enough so as to skip over the heaping piles of wet dog shit. Prior to mowing The Hill on that fateful afternoon, I believed that mulching wet dog shit and sending it flying into the hemisphere in a mist of brown rain was the worse thing that could happen to me.

This was not the case.

I began the long spiral climb up to the top. Hovering over every turd and if necessary, maneuvering around them like traffic cones. Except the traffic cones looked more like small piles of severed guerrilla fingers.

I was to be king of The Hill. It should have been a glorious day.

However, on my second last run, a mere 2ft from the top of The Hill, tragedy struck. The back wheel of my mower hit a small piece of shit, sending the mower into a fish tail. I tried to steady it but lost my footing and ended up ass over tea kettle.

My back hit the ground so hard, it was like being punched in the chest from the inside out.

As I layed there trying to catch my breath, I realised that I had not settled on a single piece of Eukanuba brown. For a brief moment, I truly believed that it was some kind of cosmic intervention but was quickly reminded that I was simply the benefactor of some positive happenstance.

Alas, my luck ended only 2 feet from the top the dreaded Hill. The grass was simply too wet and the hill too steep to prevent the inevitable.

I began to slide down the hill in slow motion. Heals dug into the wet soil, fingers grabbing desperately on to tufts of freshly cut grass. Oh the horror, as I drifted downward, slowly collecting every pile of soggy beige dog shit.

On my hands, in the crucks of my arm pits and up inside my pant legs. It was like a coprophiliac's version of a Slip N' Slide. No area was spared.

20 minutes later, I was in the Mr. Gas parking lot in nothing but a pair Costco brand underwear getting hosed down by freezing cold water and trying not to make eye contact with any of the other crew members.

...and that's the story about the last time I ever took shit from anyone.

Black Market Life Lesson #889

The solitaire who never took off his blue blockers died of jaundice. Learning to look at things differently, could one day save your life.

Dear Bump

Dear Bump
I'm sorry that you're not out yet. We could have spent the morning watching a CNBC analyst talk about the intricacies of ice cream. I'm sure you would have enjoyed this, since it seems to be all your mom wants to eat.

This world is a fantastically odd place and you can be cheerful or curmudgeon about it. I suppose my job is to make you see the good in everything. I can do that. It's kind of my thing.

The hard part will be making sure that you'll never turn a blind eye to the bad.

The morning after I found out about you, I started writing an extensive list of everything I know about life. A handbook of sorts, that I hope to refer to as a refresher from time to time. I just want to get this right.

See you soon kid.

Ocean Fontaine

If I were an exotic dancer, my name would be Ocean Fontaine.

My first song would be Lionel Richie's "Stuck On You". I would come out as the Hazmat Lady and instead of disrobing, I would put on a pair of industrial rubber gloves and a multi purpose respirator.

First I would swab the pole for samples. Then for my finale, I would scrub the floor incessantly and cordon off the area with yellow hazard tape.

For my second act, I would give up the goods.

I'd come out to Warren Zevon's "Werewolves Of London" and I would disrobe immediately to expose nothing but boy shorts and penny loafers.

I'd turn my back to the crowd and show off the word "Juicy" shaved into my lower back. Then I'd flex my butt cheeks in an alternating pattern. It would be mesmerising. Like an invisible midget pugilist, using my ass as a punching bag. Left hook. Right hook. Left hook. Right hook. Bam!

I would lay a blanket on the floor. This blanket would have a pool table, silkscreened on it. The edges carefully bedazzled by yours truly.

My act would consist of the "The Break", the "Scratch" and the excruciatingly painful "Brown ball Corner Pocket".

I would then roll over on all fours. With one hand holding my stomach in pain, I'd limp around the stage like a wounded Werewolf. Holding a penny loafer in my free hand, I would beg for change from the degenerates in pervert row.

Singing and crying at the same time.

Ahhhh Ewww Werewolves Of London.
Ahhhh Ewww Werewolves Of London.

With the change, I would buy a back-alley boob job.

BLACK MARKET LIFE LESSON #664

Sometimes the only difference between a child and an adult is how many keys are on the chain. Just because responsibility is given, doesn’t mean it’s taken.

The W

This is Hank.

This is the face Hank makes when he wants to go for a "W".


If you are a dog person, you understand that "W" means Walk. In fact you've probably conditioned yourself to never say the word. Last week, one of my clients asked me what I had planned for the weekend. "Nothing much, I think we'll be heading to Chelsea for a nice long W." I said without missing a beat. He laughed and asked me what kind of dog I had.


If you are not a dog person, here's something you should know should you consider getting one.

Dog's are assholes when it comes to the W. (Also known as Dub, W.A.L.K or Marche in the Stamina household. )

When in comes to the W. Dogs have a way of positioning themselves in your peripheral and staring at you with hurt in their eyes. If you manage to avoid the affixed gaze. They will sigh deeply until you've either given in or your cold black heart explodes.


Yesterday, my cold black heart exploded. As it does on virtually every sunny day. Even assholes don't like to walk in the rain. At least not Hank.


The thing about Hank is, despite being an asshole, he's a moment maker.

Yesterday we headed to the Gatineau Hills for a nice log W and I captured this shot.

Portrait of my hot pregnant wife walking my asshole dog

There are things in life for which we aspire. A loving wife. A dog. A child on the way. We create blurry images in our minds of what we think these things will look like.

Sometimes, if we're lucky, a photograph will capture these aspirations and bring the blurry images into crystal clear focus.

... and all because of my asshole dog.

Be back later. Gone for a W.