Sandwiches, Attack Dogs, and Fake Space

I just wanna eat my burger, man.

I’m obviously running out of adjectives to describe the news cycle, but the best one I can think of that summarizes these past couple weeks is breathtaking, which also happens to be JD Vance’s new nickname. You cannot, in your wildest dreams, make this shit up. When I take a look at the ever-growing list of headlines that make me want to run into the ocean while ripping my hair out in clumps, I see that JD Vance might have killed the pope, the spitebag who wants to become Canadian PM is bringing back plastic straws, and women in Texas just found out they can’t get reproductive freedom, but they CAN go to space if they have a friend who’s banging a billionaire #girlpower.

RIP Pope Francis, who I guess was cool for a pope? Anyone who puts the boots to Vance gets a thumbs up from me. It’s too bad he had to hang out with Evil Gerber Baby the day before he died, and not someone cool like Dolly Parton. Now there’s the headline that would have been nice for the world to get. “Pope Dies Happy Because How Can You Even Beat That.”

I’m not going to attempt a hot take on that fembarrassing trip to space (not a typo, and did I just invent that, that’s terribly clever), because Jenn Romolini and Josh Johnson have pretty much summed up all my feelings on the subject. However, I will say that sorry dudes, real space is farther away. Technical jargon aside, saying you went to space for 11 minutes is like telling your friends you got front row tickets for Taylor Swift when you actually sat on a rooftop two miles from the stadium and listened to the songs.

A bit closer to home, but equally as facepalming, Pierre Poilievre has just become every turtle’s best friend by declaring that if elected he’s gonna bring back plastic straws. There’s Canada’s “attack dog” for you. Like, honest to god, Pierre. Just get a pack of reusable metal straws and stash them in your car like the rest of us pension-less mortals so you don’t have a hissy fit when it’s time for a java chip frappuccino.

I’ve never really thought of Pierre as an attack dog. To me, he’s more like the yappy Yorkshire Terrier who lives next door. The one who won’t stop barking at you through the fence when you have friends over for a barbecue. His owners think he’s cute and that the endless yapping is endearing, while the rest of us are in the next yard with skyrocketing blood pressure. Can you JUST put the dog back in the house so we enjoy our burgers and light beer in peace and quiet?

Besides, who wants to be an attack dog? Attack dogs are overrated. They maul toddlers, no one likes to see them at the beach, and for sure nobody wants to see one snarling down at them when they’re trapped in a well. I’d prefer a calm and collected collie peering down the hole, myself. Someone a bit more dignified who uses his intelligence to get out of binds without frothing at the mouth. Take that metaphor how you will, but if we end up with a terrier for prime minister on Monday instead of Lassie I’m gonna be pissed.

Me, trying not to think about the news for 5 minutes.

Anyway friends, in spite of it all, it was a good week. The kid’s spring break finishes up this weekend, and the weather cooperated enough that we were able to have not one boil up, but two! Unheard of in Newfoundland in April, but we pulled it off. Shrimp po boys in Tors Cove, and leftover Easter turkey with dressing and cranberry sauce mayo in Witless Bay a few days later. Enough beach and blue sky and good food to drown out the news cycle, if only for a little while.

And a bit of news, Chickens…I’m off on a solo international adventure next week. Willow gone wild on two continents! Abandoning the boys for two weeks to fend for themselves while I find my post-pandemic travel legs. You might not hear from me till mid-May or so, but there’ll be a big fat post brewing while I’m away.

Spring is here!! Get out and vote, eat something good, and I’ll see you in a couple weeks.

xo