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Feb 28, 2004 With winter almost behind us for another year, and spring just around the corner, it's once again time to explore mankind's Quest for Guilt- Free Laziness. This is why we play the lottery; it gives us the fun of dreaming the improbable dream. I’ve made a list of things I would do if I ever won the lottery. First, I would give my parents half the money, though I worry about them spending the entire amount on lawn ornaments shaped like gnomes. That’s what older people do; they buy the most unusual crap they can find. “Hey, a cement statue of a bearded midget holding a trout! It’s perfect!” Maybe I’ll just buy them a house. With no front yard. Then, I’d buy a cottage. This is the Official House of Guilt-Free Laziness. Want to put five beer fridges inside? Go ahead! Deck chairs at the kitchen table? Be my guest! Hole in the ceiling? Throw a tarp over it and have another beer! A cottage is the single greatest piece of property a man can own; it’s like a grown-up’s tree-fort. My friends and I enjoyed our share of cottage outings, highlighted by day-long barbecue binges. To say we overindulged would be an understatement; we alone were responsible for beef shortages in Ontario, Quebec, and most of the Maritimes. Of course, we never cooked it properly, which could have led to some serious health problems, unbeknownst to us. According to the Food Standards Agency (FSA), “cooking meat and meat products, such as sausages, until they are overcooked or burnt can cause a number of harmful chemicals to be formed, such as polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons (PAHs) and heterocyclic amines (HAs). These chemicals are similar to the ones found in cigarettes (====~), and could therefore lead to various forms of cancer (bad). The FSA adds, “it’s very important to make sure you don’t undercook meat. Otherwise, any bacteria in the meat could survive and cause food poisoning.” Cancer and food poisoning…I guess a cookout isn’t a cookout without the possibility of death. Foodstuffs aside, the real fun revolves around hosting reckless, Dennis Rodman-style parties where people pee in bushes, put out cigarettes on rare flowers and obliterate their internal organs with alcohol. And EVERYONE has a cottage story. That’s the sort of stuff we should be putting on tombstones. At least, that’s how everyone I know would want to be remembered. Forget “Bill Smith: A loving family man.” It should be “Bill Smith: Once threw up 19 times in one night.” You can’t deny that alcohol makes the weekend far more interesting: CO-WORKER: So how was your weekend? TOM NO-FUN: Well, I headed down to Bed, Bath and Beyond…I found the BEST deal on a queen-sized duvet cover! It was like Christmas in August! Then I watched a fascinating A&E biography on Yanni. Or… CO-WORKER: So how was your weekend? JAKE BOOZEHOUND: Well, my friends and I headed to the cottage for a weekend away. We cracked open a few beers, and after a half an hour, my friend Tony was naked, running through the bushes chasing a squirrel he was convinced had stolen his lucky marble. My friend Gina air- guitared all of “The Jimi Hendrix Experience”, while dancing on the patio furniture. The Stevenson twins took turns peeing on the campfire. And I don’t remember much, but I’m told that I spent three hours discussing Nietzsche with a jar of pickles. It was awesome! Now, which guy would YOU rather hang out with? I thought so! I’ll bet some of you are saying, “James, how could you condone excessive drinking?” I don’t see the harm in having a beer or two, but I certainly don’t excuse drinking irresponsibly. You get drunk and kiss a girl, there’s little harm in that. You get blitzed and marry a non- denominational Vegan with a fake eye, you live with the consequences. But come on, friends! You’re only young once, and you’re old for so very long. In time, we all reach the age where we can’t even drink sweetened apple juice without falling on the floor, giggling and drooling all over our shirts. Youth should be enjoyed, one debilitating, throat-wrenching whiskey shooter at a time. So you can keep your fishing, and your hiking, and your getting towed on a body-board behind a speedboat at half the speed of sound so that every time you hit the water it feels like Dom DeLuise is dancing on your left rib cage. And you can keep your flying fish bait. The only worm I want to see is the one that’s happily pickled on the bottom of a tequila bottle. Cheers. *hic* ------------ About the author: James Bisson is a reporter/editor for Canadian Press in Toronto. So yes, he does have a real job. And no, he's not in a mental institution. Yet. Email James A. Bisson: jbisson@cp.org Comment on this column in the forum. Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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