Our dirt bikes bring all the boys to the yard. Damn right, they're better than yours.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Am I the only one here?

Seriously, folks. If I'm the only one with anything to say, albeit stupid things, then it's a sad commentary on how little I have to do.
So, regardless of that, here's a tale of humour and woe that makes me look like an idiot.

Saturday, while working at My Daily Newspaper,one of the other reporters says "whoa! there's this really gaudy house on Whatever Street! I think it would be a good story to ask them and their neighbours how much Christmas doecorating is too much. So I say "sure," which means "I hate this newspaper, so the fewer of my ideas I waste on it, the better."

I drive out to this supposedly supremely over-decrated house, and there's an inflatable grinch, an inflatable snow globe, and an inflatable Christmas tree. Oh. And some lights in the low juniper bushes. The house is painted pink and gold and aqaumarine, but that's what it's like all year, I'd assume. Who cares.

I call into the office.

"There's nothing here. I've seen worse than this a million times."
"Do it," says my editor.
"OK. I hate you and I hate my job."

So I go up to the door. "Ding dong," says the doorbell.
Someone nuts opens it.
"Hello! Hello! You must be the guy from the Daily News!" This talking is interlaced with several acts of unwanted physical contact. THe woman at the door still has her snore-strip on her nose, she's wearing track pants, glasses, and is smiling for no reason quite a bit. Every once in a while, she laughs awkwardly and loudly. It's scary.
"I'm Janet, and I guess you met Joe already." Her long-haired, grinning son stands by, ready to look creepy.
"Yes, my name is News Reporter, and I'm from My Daily Newspaper."
That wild laugh.
"Oh. I think that's funny. That's so funny."
Joe grins, too.
"Bob, come up here," says Nutsy.
Bob comes up here. "Bob, this is News Reporter from My Daily Newspaper."
Hello, hello, shake, shake, smile, etc."
"Bob is the editorial director for The Other Newspaper In Town."
So, we go through the motions. How much do you spend? Is this too much decoration? I know I can't use any of it because, hey, I'm interviewing the boss of a rival paper.

Finally, I leave, and, just for kicks, go across the street to talk to the neighbours about whether or not they think the people across the street are nuts. As I walk up the driveway, a woman opens the door before I get there. A huge dog barks and barks and barks.
The woman is drunk.
"Yeah, I'd like to shoot that 'let it snow' snowglobe," she says, warning me for the millionth time to be careful on the stairs, which are perfectly clear. "But to each his own. Decorations aren't the reason for the season," she says, perhaps unintentionally mocking Jesus, or just sounding drunk and stupid.
We prattle on for a while. Then I go back to my car. Hmm. Door is locked. Where are the keys. Other pocket? No. In the car? Yes.
So I walk around the car a few times, and look at it. Yep. Still locked.
I phone the office. The reporter who told me how big and great this house was answers.
"Well, I don't have a magic solution for you, News," she says in her stupidest, bitchiest, most condescending voice. "Bye."
I call my cousin, to see if she can bring the spare key. No answer. I'm standing outside in the cold with no keys, calling everything I can think of. Cab companies aren't answering. Because of the snowstorm the day before, people are going cab-crazy, and I can't get through.
I hear a voice.
"Can you come here please?" It's the drunk woman. I walk over. "Can I see some identification?" she asks. "Something that proves you are with My Daily Newspaper."
"I don't have any. They don't make business cards for the weekend reporters."
Oh. She doesn't like that.
"My husband is a cop, you know, and he said I should check your identification."
Right, just in case I'm the new type of criminal who comes to your house and steals your opinion on home decor.
SHe says she doesn't like how I'm standing outside for so long. I tell her I'm locked out of my car.
"Don't you have a spare key?"
"No," I say in the real world.
"Well, I wish I could help you, but I can't. I just can't," she says, knowing in her heart of hearts that I really want to eat her children.

So I go back to standing outside. I call my cousin, and finally get through. She's going to send a key in a cab. I tell her that the cabs aren't answering. She says she'll keep trying. OK.

I go back to standing outside. Every once in a while, the paranoid woman looks out her window to make sure I'm not wedged inside her chest cavity, stabbing her from the inside out. I'm still just sitting on the hood of my car.

I'm getting cold. And bored. I'm also wasting time I should be using to write news stories that I'd never read.

One hour later, a cop pulls up.
"Hello!" officer Luther says, drawing his gun. "how are you doing tonight."
"Well, I'm cold and locked out of my car," I tell him, shivering and bored.
"Oh. We had a call from someone saying you were lingering outside."
"I was. I'm locked out of my car."
"Don't you have a spare key?"
Is this entire city fucking retarded? "Yes, it's in my hand, but I guess I forgot I was holding it for an hour and a half." I don't actually say that.
The woman comes out with rubber boots on.
"I'm so sorry. You just can't be sure nowadays," she says to me. "I don't know who you are, so, I mean, I have kids inside."
At this point, I make a break for her open front door. Inside, I find the tender flesh of her first-born child. With teeth gnashing, I devour it, and make the bones into a funky-cool hat that teenagers find totally cool and cool.
I come back outside, covered in blood.
"Do you want to warm up inside my car?" asks officer Luther.
Blah blah. Me and the officer both went to the same school in Halifax. He's a sailing coach. He likes cheap alcohol. He likes guns and cars. I like going back to work. He offers to drive me, but just then, my cousin calls. The spare key is coming!

Finally, I get back to the office. I tell the tale of woe. Hahaha. Don't lock yourself out of your car this time, says the wittiest of the retards. I'd call the cops on you, too, with that beard, says the youngest sports writer, who recently celebrated growing his first pubic hair. The next day, the story comes out. I don't read it. I know that the editors have mutilated it, same as always, so there's no point even looking.

Thus ends a day of work at My Daily Newspaper.