It's the end of the year, and it's time for apologies.
Why? Because it's 2015!
Sometimes I say things I shouldn't. I am too trigger happy with the send button.
And I don't actually realize that the people I'm writing about are real, nor do I realize that they actually read my stuff.
Which is stupid, I know.
I have the handy Blogger stats button to show me otherwise.
But before I apologize to the legions, well the few, I have offended in this space, I would like to take the time to explain why once in a great while I turn into the Mean Girl Who Should Have Her IP Address Suspended.
It all started back in the 60s.
My brothers nicknamed me Stinks.
Everybody else had a cool moniker like Egg Head, Renald the Pig, Scab or Gert. Those were nicknames the boys wore with honor.
Stinks was not a name I could get behind.
People thought I got the name Stinks because I was Pepe Le Pew, an odorous little mongrel who cleared a room upon her entrance.
That was not the case, and I'd like to clear this up right now.
I was called Stinks because I pissed off my brother Bob because I wanted to turn on the television in the front room while he was studying. Now, to my mind at least, he didn't need to be sitting there trying to figure out Algebra. He could have studied in his room, or he could have joined my brother Gary at the kitchen table.
But no, he had to spread his cheeks on the sofa while Ed Sullivan was on.
Ed Sullivan!
So we began an epic battle which I couldn't possibly win because my brother was six feet tall and fifteen, and I was five foot tall and ten. We would engage in a little foreplay, with me turning the tv on, and him turning it off. This could go on for about four minutes, with Bob acting like a cat luring the mouse into its domain, and me being the rodent who was too stupid to know I would soon be the remains of the day.
Finally, Bob would get up, turn off the television and pick me up, kicking and screaming. He would head out the back door and throw me on the step, and lock the door. It didn't matter if it was minus a hundred or plus a hundred, I would be sitting on the stoop with Suzie the dog, whose ears had been eaten off by flies. Suzie felt sorry for me, and let me sleep in her insulated dog house.
You might wonder where my mother was when all this occurred, and the answer was next door in my Grandmother's house drinking beer with my cousins. Being a farm kid, I was left to my own devices while the adults played cards or went off to Bingo. Frankly, I'm not sure if my mother would even have noticed if I were alive or dead while, to borrow a popular song from my childhood, "the worms came in the worms came out, the worms played pinnacle on my snout."
Nobody really cared about little Stinks, and that's why I was so attached to the television.
Some people are raised by wolves; I was raised by Don Rickles.
In any case, I spent a lot of time in the doghouse.
With a bad nickname.
I literally became the Junkyard Doug: mean and feisty, with ears bitten off by flies.
Eventually, I grew up, and hoped to leave the bullies and their cruel names behind.
Foolishly, I chose to work in the news business. I went from the doghouse to the rattlesnake's nest.
It wasn't long before I got my newsroom nickname.
I morphed from Stinks into Rosie Tits because I grew a spectacular pair at university. Needless to say, Rosie Tits was only marginally less hurtful than Stinks.
And the trouble with nicknames is you can't outrun them.
I was at my uncle's funeral about ten years ago, with my newly minted husband, Scott who was being introduced to the family for the first time. I wanted desperately to make an impression.
I introduced my wonderful husband to my cousin Skip -- who had a much nicer nickname than me, also. He smiled and shook Scott's hand, and then turn to me and said, "Hi Stinks!"
Fuck me very much.
So you can see why I've turned into a bitter old crone.
A Rose by Any Other Name is still Stinks.
Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word
Nobody likes to be called out for being an idiot, but I get missives from people, once in a while, whom I have offended.
I got one from Mike Duffy after I wrote something about him, something nobody else had written which was absolutely true, but was insensitive.
So I am sorry, Mike.
You are a sweet guy with a boatload of problems, and you didn't need me piling on.
After all, we've shared a lot together over the years -- beers at the press club, meals at Nate's, a bed together after the Press Gallery Dinner.
Truly, I wish you and Heather the very best for 2016 and I want to thank you for not offering me work when I was out of it.
I also want to apologize to Stephen Harper, a man who I have used as a punching bag over the years. I can't say it wasn't personal, because it was. You destroyed our country and made us feel horrible about ourselves. You led us into the darkness, away from the light. But if it weren't for you, Canadians would have never known the difference. You taught us that, Steve. You taught us.
I'm sorry that I told everybody that you turned 24 Sussex into an inhabitable cat house with pee in every closet. I did not know that for a fact; I merely intuited it.
I'm sorry to Bell Fibe. Rogers is just as bad.
Sorry to all the people at CTV Ottawa for making fun of them, especially the blondes. It's not your fault that you won the genetic lottery. And it's not your fault that the men who run things prefer blondes. I know what you're going through. My nickname is Rosie Tits.
On a final note, I want to say thank you to my legions of fan for sticking by me over these many years. This blog space has been a life line, a place to vent my spleen, to put myself out into the world. As a first class shut-in, I exist only in the Cyber, like Max Headroom with less hair and more snark.
Whenever I find myself under-employed, frustrated, angry or even happy, I come here to be with you, to spend a little time together. I don't need Captcha to make me feel like a real person; you help me with that every day.
So thanks, and sorry.
I'm Canadian, I can't help myself.
Why? Because it's 2015!
Sometimes I say things I shouldn't. I am too trigger happy with the send button.
And I don't actually realize that the people I'm writing about are real, nor do I realize that they actually read my stuff.
Which is stupid, I know.
I have the handy Blogger stats button to show me otherwise.
But before I apologize to the legions, well the few, I have offended in this space, I would like to take the time to explain why once in a great while I turn into the Mean Girl Who Should Have Her IP Address Suspended.
It all started back in the 60s.
My brothers nicknamed me Stinks.
Everybody else had a cool moniker like Egg Head, Renald the Pig, Scab or Gert. Those were nicknames the boys wore with honor.
Stinks was not a name I could get behind.
People thought I got the name Stinks because I was Pepe Le Pew, an odorous little mongrel who cleared a room upon her entrance.
That was not the case, and I'd like to clear this up right now.
I was called Stinks because I pissed off my brother Bob because I wanted to turn on the television in the front room while he was studying. Now, to my mind at least, he didn't need to be sitting there trying to figure out Algebra. He could have studied in his room, or he could have joined my brother Gary at the kitchen table.
But no, he had to spread his cheeks on the sofa while Ed Sullivan was on.
Ed Sullivan!
So we began an epic battle which I couldn't possibly win because my brother was six feet tall and fifteen, and I was five foot tall and ten. We would engage in a little foreplay, with me turning the tv on, and him turning it off. This could go on for about four minutes, with Bob acting like a cat luring the mouse into its domain, and me being the rodent who was too stupid to know I would soon be the remains of the day.
Finally, Bob would get up, turn off the television and pick me up, kicking and screaming. He would head out the back door and throw me on the step, and lock the door. It didn't matter if it was minus a hundred or plus a hundred, I would be sitting on the stoop with Suzie the dog, whose ears had been eaten off by flies. Suzie felt sorry for me, and let me sleep in her insulated dog house.
You might wonder where my mother was when all this occurred, and the answer was next door in my Grandmother's house drinking beer with my cousins. Being a farm kid, I was left to my own devices while the adults played cards or went off to Bingo. Frankly, I'm not sure if my mother would even have noticed if I were alive or dead while, to borrow a popular song from my childhood, "the worms came in the worms came out, the worms played pinnacle on my snout."
Nobody really cared about little Stinks, and that's why I was so attached to the television.
Some people are raised by wolves; I was raised by Don Rickles.
In any case, I spent a lot of time in the doghouse.
With a bad nickname.
I literally became the Junkyard Doug: mean and feisty, with ears bitten off by flies.
Eventually, I grew up, and hoped to leave the bullies and their cruel names behind.
Foolishly, I chose to work in the news business. I went from the doghouse to the rattlesnake's nest.
It wasn't long before I got my newsroom nickname.
I morphed from Stinks into Rosie Tits because I grew a spectacular pair at university. Needless to say, Rosie Tits was only marginally less hurtful than Stinks.
And the trouble with nicknames is you can't outrun them.
I was at my uncle's funeral about ten years ago, with my newly minted husband, Scott who was being introduced to the family for the first time. I wanted desperately to make an impression.
I introduced my wonderful husband to my cousin Skip -- who had a much nicer nickname than me, also. He smiled and shook Scott's hand, and then turn to me and said, "Hi Stinks!"
Fuck me very much.
So you can see why I've turned into a bitter old crone.
A Rose by Any Other Name is still Stinks.
Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word
Nobody likes to be called out for being an idiot, but I get missives from people, once in a while, whom I have offended.
I got one from Mike Duffy after I wrote something about him, something nobody else had written which was absolutely true, but was insensitive.
So I am sorry, Mike.
You are a sweet guy with a boatload of problems, and you didn't need me piling on.
After all, we've shared a lot together over the years -- beers at the press club, meals at Nate's, a bed together after the Press Gallery Dinner.
Truly, I wish you and Heather the very best for 2016 and I want to thank you for not offering me work when I was out of it.
I also want to apologize to Stephen Harper, a man who I have used as a punching bag over the years. I can't say it wasn't personal, because it was. You destroyed our country and made us feel horrible about ourselves. You led us into the darkness, away from the light. But if it weren't for you, Canadians would have never known the difference. You taught us that, Steve. You taught us.
I'm sorry that I told everybody that you turned 24 Sussex into an inhabitable cat house with pee in every closet. I did not know that for a fact; I merely intuited it.
I'm sorry to Bell Fibe. Rogers is just as bad.
Sorry to all the people at CTV Ottawa for making fun of them, especially the blondes. It's not your fault that you won the genetic lottery. And it's not your fault that the men who run things prefer blondes. I know what you're going through. My nickname is Rosie Tits.
On a final note, I want to say thank you to my legions of fan for sticking by me over these many years. This blog space has been a life line, a place to vent my spleen, to put myself out into the world. As a first class shut-in, I exist only in the Cyber, like Max Headroom with less hair and more snark.
Whenever I find myself under-employed, frustrated, angry or even happy, I come here to be with you, to spend a little time together. I don't need Captcha to make me feel like a real person; you help me with that every day.
So thanks, and sorry.
I'm Canadian, I can't help myself.
Comments
Post a Comment