Totally Over the Top

...this is so weird, you just might want to run away right now...it doesn't even make any sense....

....(I'm terribly angry)....

It looks like my plan to boycott Stupidstore is going to have to be shelved for a while, at least with regards to our bacon supplies. A thirteen-year-old was found here in the West End with a fully loaded semi-automatic weapon which he apparently used to threaten at least one person with. Having such armed miscreants in our midst means there is no way we can go ahead with our plan to become independent pork producers. If we bought a pig and set it free for the summer, as was my plan, our little curly-tailed porcine buddy would for sure become fodder for target practice. Then I'd stumble upon the little delinquent eating MY spare ribs. Given what occurred on Sunday, I know I would NOT be able to control my temper, and I'd say, "Hey, gimme back my spare ribs, you little bastard!" Then I'd yank them away from him! Yeah, that's what I'd do. But the jerk would have already eaten everything else.

Of course, taking the spare ribs would send this little freak OVER THE EDGE. He'd have been saving the best part of the pig for last, and now it would be gone! He'd run home and make a crazy little "multi-media package" and send it off to some television station. Then he'd head over to our back yard and take out everything. Cows, chickens, even the ostrich we'd purchased for its "leaner than beef yet still rather tasty" flesh. Total destruction. He'd take out himself too, naturally. Big news. The television network would receive their little "care package" and OF COURSE they would run it on air! The big executives would practically piss themselves thinking of the through-the-roof ratings and their subsequent bonuses! Then it would get on the Internet, and every misguided youth in the country would watch it. Pig-shooter boy would become a cult celebrity! Fabulous! You really can't make this stuff up!

Meanwhile back at home, Mr. IQ would be despondent over the loss of the pig, sobbing disconsolately into his pillow at night and really getting on my nerves during the day, singing a sad, warbling rendition of "Mama's little baby loves crackling, crackling..." all the freaking time.

"Aughh, snap out of it already!!" I'd finally shriek. So he'd go off to get some counseling, from someone like, oh, I don't know, maybe... George W. Bush. He'd say, "I know I'm Canadian, George, but you seem to really understand this gun thing, so I've come down here for some comfort and advice."

"Well, IQ, " George would say, sneaking a look at the clock surreptitiously, "I wouldn't worry too much about it. Your little pig friend is in heaven now. No more pain!"

Mr. IQ would furrow his brow, and look confused. "But, uh, I'm not sure my pig was a practicing Christian, George..."

"And his killer is burning in the deepest pits of hell!! Surely you can take comfort from that!"

"Well, uh, I guess... but I've never really believed in he--..."

"Look IQ-tee-toot toot, your problem is you're concentrating on the past, when the future is what it's all about. You made mistakes. Now deal with them. Repopulate the garage. More pigs. More cows. More ostriches. And this time, no fooling around."

"Huh?"

"Guard 'em boy! Guard 'em with your life!"

"Gggg..guard them?"

"With a gun boy! Here, I'll give you mine!" George would reach into the crotch area of his pants and pull out his heater. It would be warm, but not because he's recently fired it. (At least I hope not for your sake buddy!!) (Heh heh heh.)

"Uh, thanks George," Mr. IQ would say, holding it awkwardly.

"Listen," George would murmur, getting confidential, "I wanna ask you something, since it relates to what we've all been talking about here."

"Okay, shoot," Mr. IQ would say, fondling his new gun.

"I've got a new campaign slogan and I'm hoping they run with it in 2008. It's, uh, A Chicken in Every Pot, 'cause There's a Gun on Every Lot! Do you like it? It's snappy, don't you think?"

"Whippersnappy," Mr. IQ would mumble politely. George would blush with pleasure.

"I made it up myself," he'd say, somewhat shyly.

"It's great."

Encouraged, George would get brave. "I've got another one too!"

"Hit me baby, one more time!!" Mr. IQ would say encouragingly, twirling the gun and his Farrah Fawcett-like hair around and then pretending to shoot a bad man.

"Guns don't kill pigs, pigs kill pigs!! As in, scum-sucking criminal-type pigs, not police pigs, kill, you know, the tasty kind of pigs..."

"Not as catchy..."

George would look a little crushed. "Yah," he'd admit, "That one needs some working on." An awkward silence would follow. George would pretend to do something important, like shuffle papers.

"Well, I've got to get going" Mr. IQ would say, taking the hint and heading for the door, "Thanks a lot. I feel a lot better. It could have been a lot worse, I mean, after all, it was only a bunch of dumb animals we lost. It's not like it was 32 NICE INNOCENT UNSUSPECTING PEOPLE WHO WERE KILLED or anything like that."

George would stop shuffling his papers and look genuinely shocked. "Good god man," he'd say, "Of COURSE it wasn't PEOPLE! If it was PEOPLE we'd have to... BAN GUNS or something!!"

Both men would start laughing uproariously: Ha! Ha! Ha!



Everything just makes me so sick these days.