I really misses me ole buddy from across da aisle, Jamie Baileys. Too bads he got too hot to trot wit da wrong woman.
‘Magine ya bot duz sumthun’ you agrees upon and obviously sumthun’ ya both loves to do, den da woman goes blabberin’ all true da orfice ’bout yer so-called “inappropriate behaviour.” And da next ting ya knows ya out on yer ass. Shouda just left ‘er dere stranded in da back a dat cab!
Reckon, Diary, I never taught I would pine fer Jamie Baileys. Until dis last sittin’ in da big chamber and he wasn’t directly ‘cross da aisle from me. Waggin’ he’s short, stubby finger at me. Like he’s always been.
So, dis sittin’ I gets stuck with dis Karla McFairlane sittin’ ’er arse directly ’cross da aisle from me. Waggin’ she’s short, stubby finger at me.
Da poor woman, she stands up in da big chamber, tries her dang best to ghiz me a rough ride on everthun’ from soup to nuts. Tries to get under me skin, she duz.
But likes I says, Diary, I just smiles back at Karla and nods me head. Which only makes da lady madder den a wet hen. Cuz we all knows if ya really wants to piss off a woman all ya has to do is agree wit whads she’s sayin’. Nuttin’ pisses dem off more den dat. Really confuses dem. Makes dem appear likes dey on dope er sumthin’.
Speakin’ a dope, Diary, whad really made me laugh dis sittin’ wuz dat little red-headed fellah from ways up dere in Meat Cove, Cape Breton, dat dere little Allans Mac- Master. Da guy who looks like Casey off dat ole children’s show Mr. Dress-up.
Dis fellah got’s to be from friggin’ deeper in da sticks den I is. Cuz I don’t tink Allans MacMaster, he’s ever heard a da marijuana until we came up wit our idea to makes it legal. So all da kids coulds buy it.
Cuz everytime marijuana comes high on our agenda I just looks ‘cross da aisle at Allans MacMaster. Boy, he sure gets he’s self all flustered. And he’s friggin’ face turns redder den he’s hair for pete’ssake!
I tells ya, Diary, it would be easy fer me to sit here and say dat Allans is simply just puttin’ on a little boy scout show fer da benefit of the television cameras. But I’s got to be honest wit ya, Diary, I really tinks Allans is dat gullible. I truly believes he’s never, ever heard a da marijuna.
And I suspects dere’s a whole lot more he ain’t never heard a ether. Good job I gave Allans dat picture book, da one wit all da racy diagrams fer he’s weddin’ present a few monts back! Wonder if he ever got ‘round to it? Possibly, I ‘spose. Ya never knows.
But ya knows deres really no pleasin’ dat crowd from ’cross da aisle. As hard as we tries.
Specially dat lot from Cape Breton. Not only Allans, but dat Alfie McClouds, dat Eddie Orvilles, dat Keith Dustbain, and dat new gal dey has.
Typical Cape Bretoners. All dey wants to do is take, take, take from da rest a Nova Scotia.
Reckon, Diary, dese Cape Breton types don’t yet realize dat dey still owes us approximately $2 billion fer dat mess of a Sydney Steel plant dey had up dere fer all dos years.
So da only way to tries and gets some of dat money back is to pay dur doctors less money and shut down dur hospital emergency departments. Dat’ll teach dos buggers, Diary, believe you me. Reckon it’ll be a long time before dos Cape Bretoners come cryin’ to Halifax lookin’ fer anutter steel plant!
Besides, why is dey always shittin’ all over me. Why isn’t they spewin’ some of dur venom in da direction a Geoff MacLellan, me right hand man in Cape Breton? Nobody ever puts any a da blame on skirt chasin’ Geoff MacLellan. Teflon Geoff.
He’s da guy dat should be fightin’ fer Cape Breton, not me. Dang it, Geoff MacLellan is one a dem. He’s one a da tribe. He never does dick for Cape Breton, or even he’s own constituency Glace Bay, and I’s da guy dat always gets da blame. I takes da shit for Geoff MacLellan bein’ too occupied wit all dat lookin’ under da bed fer he’s socks. Geoff MacLellan fiddles and I’s da one dat gets burned, fer Chrissake!
But Geoff MacLellan don’t have no doggone worries. He’s got he’s family doctor and all easy access to penicillin and whatnot. Why should Geoff MacLellan give two hoots ‘bout anybody else?
Somebody’s gotta tell dem Cape Bretoners, “Listen, if ya wants a family psychian den get yer dam self elected to Province House. Dats da way ta do it. Da only way you’ll ever get a family doctor.”
And the nerve a dat otter Cape Bretoner, dat Keith Dustbain from Baddeck, screechin’ he’s dam fool face off at me over all dis healt care nonsense. What in da name a Sam Hill dos dis guy have to crow about? He was dead and the N.S. healt care system brought da poor bastard back to life. Now, he’s shootin’ his big red face off over da sad state a healt care in dis province. Da same bloody healt care system dat raised Keith Dustbain back from da friggin’ grave like friggin’ Lazarus!
Dats da problem, Diary, I don’t get no respect.
Family doctors, fer pete’ssake. Me mudder, Diary, as you may know da first woman sheriff in all Nova Scotia, she had friggin’ 17 kids and not one of us wuz delivered by a doctor. Mudder just dropped da babies wherever she was standin’. Ya had to be careful if ya wuz walkin’ behind mudder dat ya didn’t trip over a newborn.
I knows I wuz born in da Bugtussle Dry Goods Store. Dat’s where my head hit da floor. We didn’t need no doctor. Not fer one minute.
Mudder would just stop walkin, den assume ‘er baby stance, and kerplunk we had anutter one in da world. No fuss, no bodder. Just give baby & parts a quick once over, a quick lick over wit a wet towel and we wuz on our way like nuttin’ happened. Until fadder got home to have anutter go at mudder.
Or, unless, of course, mudder forgot ‘bout you. In which case she could drag ya all over da ground, all over hell’s half-acre fer hours, until sumbody bloody yelled and reminded ‘er to cut da dang biblical cord.
Dats da problem wit society today. It’s all got so soft. Peoples is always complainin’. Seems dey always gotta be in a stint over sumthun’ er otter. Relax, I says.
And dats just what me & me group is plannin’.
Reckon, Diary, we figures by da time we gets all Nova Scotians on da dope da only ting dey’ll be complainin’ ‘bout will be tryin’ find dat turd bag of cheesies.
Anyway, talk to ya next week, Diary!