A Brother Named “Fluffy.”

Fluffy My brother

Some kids are lucky enough to get a dog or a cat for a pet. Some kids get a cow or a horse. Some are limited to a fish or a hamster.

I got a brother.

I wanted to name him “Fluffy” but I was not allowed to name him. No, no . . . THAT privilege went to the people who dropped him off in my life and made me responsible for feeding and exercising him . . . not to mention house training him. If someone ever tries to give you a pet that they have already named, NEVER, accept it. That means this is a “insert type of pet here” that someone else tried to love and they failed. It is true, sometimes it is the fault of the people who bought the darn thing, but most likely, especially if the pet is a brother, the fault is completely in the pet.

Someone is trying to pass off their broken lame pet on you.

Mine did not do a single trick that anyone cared about. That is because no-one cares what you can stick up your nose, or what weird sounds you can make with your arm pitt. Passing gas and burping are NOT tricks either.

Mine was forever doing stupid things.

That is all that needs to be said about that statement. No need going into detail about all the kinds of stupid things he did. He did them. ALL of them.

Mine was a tattle tale. He was forever telling everyone everything. Some of it mattered to me and some did not. It doesn’t matter to what degree your pet disobeys or ignores you, you still have a responsibility to teach your pet the right things to do. I used electro shock therapy.

They didn’t work.

Stun guns don’t work either.

Medication was pointless, even when we buried it in his Kraft Dinner, he refused to swallow it. Some of my grandmothers best linens, walls and other children are still stained with neon orange because of his projectile spitting.

Pets are meant to teach a child about love, and responsibility. They are meant to be part of the warm hearted memories and video reels that you one day pull out and start to cry remembering what a great pet “Fluffy” was and all the good times you shared. Pets are family members that are with you through some of the best times in your life celebrating, and then comforting you through some of the worst. This is the circle of life. Norman Rockwell drew pictures of this. Lassie and Old Yeller were the poster dogs for the whole movement.

This is a wonderful, good, heartwarming thing.

Everyone knows that is how it is supposed to work.  Everyone, except my pet, “Fluffy:” –  the brother. (I don’t care what the rest of the world called him.)  It is possible that Fluffy had special needs and that I had too high of expectations for him.   Wah Wah Wah … he should have tried harder.

That is why I am asking now, that people the whole world over, join with me in a movement to ban brothers from the family home where they suck at being pets and just make little girls grow up hating men and the people who dumped their problem pet off on them.

THIS is why the world is upside down and all over the place and makes no sense.

Send your donations to me.

Thank you.

(and mom, dad . . . I am not ever coming home again until you put him down.  Enough is enough.)

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The Budgie That Never Returned In The Spring, at Least Not To The Prairies.

road kill 2

I wanted a budgie.

I think I wanted one because they came in pretty colours but also because they were not cows.  I had kind of had my fill of cows.  Dairy will do that to you.

Have I ever told you how much I resent the hell out of the fact that when I was growing up no-one talked about being lactose intolerant or needing gluten free everything.  That shit is awesome.  I guarantee some girl locked away somewhere in the deep farm land of Saskatchewan came up with that stuff.  If I had heard of it, I would have read up, become the best lactose intolerant, gluton reactionariest  poster child that ever lived.  I would have got me a note from the doctor excusing me from all things farm and caught the first one horse pony out of there.

But I didn’t have options.  I was stuck.  So I wanted a budgie.   Some kids did drugs to rebel,  I wanted a budgie instead of a cow. Continue reading

Run Biff Run!

run biffster run

My brother tried to run away from home in high heels once.

He made it just passed the corrals down by the slough. Then he slipped on a cow patty, caught his heel in a gopher hole, and he was down for the count.

A couple of cows tried to revive him. Well maybe the one who licked him did. The one who peed on him may have remembered him from an unfortunate milking incident earlier. People pee on people here in Australia when they get stung by a jelly fish and that is a good thing. Well, it is a good thing in comparison to either death or surviving several hours with the sensation of the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir using your body as an ashtray to put out their cigarettes on . . . repeatedly . . . all through the Hallelujah Chorus . . .. I am not sure about the whole cow take on it. Humanitarian or not? Discuss amongst yourselves. Continue reading

Lemon Gin, The Rocket Fuel of Dreams.

lemon gin

We had our own Eiffel tower on the prairies.  We were pretty excited to get it – some kind of telecommunications contraption stuck right there in a wheat field.

The thing is that none of the farmers seemed to even notice.

That is what happens to you when the wheat seeds get into your boots and sprout and grow into your body and overtake your brain.  Your head is kept  fixed solidly on the combine and your whole world becomes straight lines etched into your field. Continue reading

Parallel Universes and Peas.

parallel universes

My grandfather got really pissed at the Biffster once because he wasn’t being manly enough to please his old world sensibilities. Mostly he was terrified that the Biff might be “queer.” I mean there were so many clues to justify his concern, like the fact that Biff wasn’t hitching up his jeans, scratching himself or strutting while both horking and spitting. My grandfather was a keen observer of all things life. He didn’t just leap to his conclusions, he defied all gravity and flew across Grand Canyons of expanse to reach them. He was a gifted gifted athlete! Continue reading

Halloweening Like Weenies on the Canadian Prairies.

halloween

I went Halloweening as a kid. It was impressive, being I was raised by my Grandparents and lived in the middle of nowhere, aka the prairies of the Great Frozen Northland, aka Canada.

The first rule of thumb was that our costumes had to be “tasteful.” I know that those of you who know me completely understand the kind of box that put me in. I am just lucky that I escaped my childhood not having been completely stunted in my magically impressive repertoire of hysterically funny, probably inappropriate, social commentary. How I ended making it out the other end of my childhood alive, considering those kind of restrictions, is beyond me. I clearly had a special angel intervening with some kind of Teflon shield. Continue reading

Moses, Briefcases, and Crinolines. A Sunday School Take Down.

Moses

While other kids were getting their “Strawberry Shortcake” back packs I was insistent on a briefcase. I had some important stuff and no way was I going to trust it to some pony that sparkled or that dimwit Barbie.  I firmly believed that if you were going to be taken seriously, you had to dress the part.

It was really effective in church. They would herd us into Sunday School class – I am serious … this bell would sound and  this guy who looked like Moses leading the Israelites (only we were more miniature and in fluffier dresses)would take us through the wilderness (the pews) to the promised land of milk and cookies.  It would be years before I found out that “Moses” was a woman and that yes, women could have facial hair like that and really ugly brown sandals. Continue reading