On being purchased

No time for blogging all day, peeps. Sure, I had time; I spent most of the day staring at the wall, but no one had time to do my typing for me.

It was kind of understandable because the big kid was turning 6 and the putative adults were running around like maniacs making a cake and assembling loot bags that they would ultimately forget to distribute at the end of a screaming-loud party at a kids’ play area redolent of sweat socks and parental desperation.

I have no idea what my parents were like before they had their two monkeys. They bought me at the liquor store a few days before the first one was born. There they were, doing their Christmas alcohol shopping, Dad anticipating some good holiday drinking, Mum pregnant and settling for vicarious liquor selection…and I winked at them. I was hanging out on one of the shelves with the other bears (buy two—you keep one, the other goes to charity), and I noticed they were really loading up their cart with a lot of hooch. They had nine or ten wine bottles of wine, some Bailey’s and a really fine scotch; and poor old dead Granny had just hoisted a big magnum of sparkling wine into the cart.

I was excited because they seemed like proper alcoholics and fully my type of people. I didn’t realize they were stocking up for holiday visitors, because their full house would be celebrating not only Yuletide but the arrival of their first baby.

Blinded by the alcohol, I winked at them. I don’t know if they perceived it—they’re pretty oblivious at the best of times, my parents—but they stopped and looked at me. They reach out to me, gave me a pat. Next thing I knew, I was scanned, bought, bagged, and riding home with them.

I don’t know if they would have bought a bear if they hadn’t been expecting a baby. They probably would have gone for the two-bear charity deal, donated both, and gone home with just their booze.

So, in a way, their 6-year-old is the reason I live where I live, the reason I have adoptive parents, and the reason my fur is so matted it looks like aliens tried to make crop circles on it. I’ve worn countless dresses, been mummified all day in a tensor bandage, been slathered with rash cream and diapered, barely escaped barf and failed to escape snot, and dragged, thrown and trodden on.

And seriously, that shit is not okay. Fine, yes, they love me, and yes, it’s mutual, but I swear, if this continues, they’re going to literally tear me a new one, and when my mum sews me up with the purple thread the kids inevitably select, I will need a lot of alcohol.

Just saying.

ASTROLIQUOR for Dec. 16-22: What the stars say you should drink

My Fellow Inebriates,

Here’s your booze horoscope:

This week sucks for you, Aries, but you’ll have to accept the mantle of Designated Driver. Even when you go out with friends who promise to be DD, they will let you down. So it’s fruit juice for you when you’re out, but make sure you have a nice bottle of wine for yourself when you’ve discharged your driving duties.

Taurus, your relationships with people are going to take a beating this week. Don’t hit the unfriend button yet; they’re only being temporary douchebags. For now, stay away from people and drink alone. You can do a lot of things with Skyy melon vodka, and there’s more left for you if you take the antisocial road. Try mixing it with 7-Up, sweet-and-sour mix, and a squeeze of lemon.

You had money coming a couple of weeks ago, but now you’ve spent it and things are a bit worrisome, Gemini. You’re going to be bumming drinks until the end of February. Stretch your vodka and gin by adding juice, crushed ice, sugar—whatever gives you more sipping time. It’s a drag to be busted, so make sure you don’t buy anything more expensive than Smirnoff.

Cancer, you’ve been ignoring your family and your ass is spreading all over your chair from spending 12 hours a day on the Internet. Try getting so drunk that you can’t read anything at all. It’ll be refreshing for you, and nice for your family to see you reeling around again. The best shortcut to inebriation: Southern Comfort with a touch of tonic and lime.

Stop rushing around, Leo, it’s stressing you out and it’s not very efficient in the end. The world will go on whether you are sober or drunk, so get plastered with a case of beer.

If you planned your days better, Virgo, you’d have more “you” time. Haha, just kidding, you have lots of “you” time. I see you spending it with a bottle of Bacardi 151 and some tabasco.

You often wait for people to call or email you, Libra, but it’s time for you to take some initiative. Find some people at the supermarket and invite them over. Make them Bailey’s-and-rum shots. If they ask you who the hell you are, invite them to rub lotion on you.

You’ll hear from an old friend you’ve been out of touch with, Scorpio. This easy-to-please pal will forget any ways you’ve been a jerk and happily go to work mixing drinks with you. But let’s face it, it’s awkward falling back into conversation with old friends, so you should fast-track getting wasted. Here’s a delightful recipe that will occupy you both so those uncomfortable silences don’t intrude on your reunion.

  • 3 oz gin
  • 1.5 oz Southern Comfort
  • 1 oz lemon liqueur
  • 1 oz peach liqueur
  • 1 oz lemon juice
  • 1 oz simple syrup
  • 1 oz peach juice (where the hell do you get that? ask your friend to bring it)

Sagittarius, it’s time to paint the house, literally. You have to choose your colors wisely, though, so make your trip to Benjamin Moore before you throw this wicked recipe together:

  • 3 oz tequila
  • 2 oz Malibu
  • 2 oz mango-flavored vodka
  • 2 oz pineapple liqueur
  • 1 oz Grand Marnier
  • Hawaiian Punch to taste (I’m using “none”)

Another good reason to do your paint shopping first: you don’t want to be an asshole and drive after consuming this.

Take the plunge this week, Capricorn. Regardless of what it is, go big or go home. Plug in appliances without reading the manual; book a vacation without reading the fine print; and make awesome drinks like this one:

  • 1 oz sloe gin
  • 1 oz advocaat
  • 1 oz cherry brandy

Layer all three kinds of booze into shot glasses. He who hesitates is lost—pound them.

It’s not a good week for you to go outside, Aquarius, because the stars are predicting your bike will get stolen or wrecked. Obviously transportation and drinking don’t mix, so you’ll wisely stay home to drown your sorrows. Here’s your beverage:

  • Equal parts gin, vodka, pineapple juice and orange soda
  • Splash of grenadine and a brandy to taste

After you’ve had six or so, someone important will phone you—probably offering you a coveted job or opportunity. You’ll be too shitfaced to articulate an answer.

Pisces, just because you don’t have money, you shouldn’t stop spending. Every drink bought for an acquaintance is a chance at networking. Pretty soon you’ll be out of the job you hate and into one of those cushy (mythical?)  liquid-lunch office jobs. Stick with vodka so the odor doesn’t betray how loaded you are.

“Piece of shit” in Parliament? Language for the times

My Fellow Inebriates,

I’d be lying if I told you I tuned in regularly to Question Period in the House of Commons, but I wish I had yesterday. Apparently all hell broke loose after Environment Minister Peter Kent asked why NDP environment critic Megan Leslie hadn’t attended last week’s climate change summit in South Africa, knowing full well she hadn’t been allowed to. Liberal MP Justin Trudeau lost it and uttered a big first for the House: “Oh, you piece of shit.”

Reuters/Chris Wattie

To crusty old parliamentarians this marks a nadir for the House and the gentle art of debate. Trudeau immediately apologized for the outburst, and asked that it be stricken from the record, but it had already borne wings on countless tweets.

It’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Commons proceedings can get pretty dry, and I suspect the demographic watching them is a little older than the generation peppering its conversations with the term “piece of shit.” Asked what his dad Pierre would have thought of his outburst, Justin said, “He would say that he was disappointed that I had to stoop to language that was unparliamentary, but I know that he would have probably been pleased that I was sticking up for someone else.”

This fly thinks a "piece of shit" is a good thing.

For me the phrase “piece of shit” is an indispensable descriptor, versatile enough to encompass things that don’t work, things that won’t work, and things that are totally corrupt. Its pedigree isn’t that old—the earliest film script it turns up in is 1983’s SCARFACE (“Manolo, shoot that piece of shit!”), after which it appears regularly:

FERRIS BUELLER’S DAY OFF (1986)—Ferris: Rooney’d never believe Mr. Peterson drives that piece of shit.” Cameron: “It’s not a piece of shit.” Ferris: “It’s a piece of shit. Don’t worry about it. I don’t even have a piece of shit.”

PLATOON (1986)—“You ain’t a firing squad, you piece of SHIT!”

FULL METAL JACKET (1987)—“Are you quitting on me? Well, are you? Then quit, you slimy fucking walrus-looking piece of shit!”

NATURAL BORN KILLERS(1994)—“That piece of shit lawnmower is fucked!”

THE ROCK (1996)—“Why am I not surprised, you piece of shit.”

GOOD WILL HUNTING (1997)—“It’s a real piece of shit.”

THE BIG LEBOWSKI (1998)—“Life does not start and stop at your convenience, you miserable piece of shit.”

OFFICE SPACE (1999)—“One of these days I’m just going to kick this piece of shit out the window!”

SNATCH (2000)—“What we’re saying is that six-pound piece of shit stuck in your pants would do more damage if you fed it to him.”

SUPERBAD (2007)—“You suck. Bullshit phone, piece of shit.”

Sylvester Stallone particularly likes the epithet, which pops up in CLIFFHANGER, DAYLIGHT and DEMOLITION MAN.

Needless to say, this list isn’t comprehensive. LEGEND OF THE SEEKER, DUE DATE, TWELVE MONKEYS, LEON, DEMOLITION MAN, FIGHT CLUB, APOLLO 13, THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION, WAITING, GOODFELLAS, THE OTHER GUYS, THE MATRIX, SEVEN, JACKIE BROWN, THE GODFATHER III and probably dozens of others all feature the phrase “piece of shit.” Feel free to correct me, but I couldn’t find it pre-1983.

Which makes “piece of shit” a quintessential term for the kids who were weaned on FERRIS BUELLER. For ‘80s and 90s high school grads and beyond, “piece of shit” has been a piece of life. It makes abundant sense, it sums up a situation or a person in three poignant words, and it’s often the most apt comment possible. And for Justin Trudeau to call Peter Kent a piece of shit when he was being just that is…admirable.

Let’s toast with a Gin & Fresca—gin because, well, gin is awesome, and Fresca because it contains the magical chemical aspartame, which hit the market in the 1980s just like the term “piece of shit.” Ahhhh!