Posts Tagged ‘canadian’

As a Canadian, I think that I’m hard-wired to love the sport of curling.  As a child of parents who curled for years, I am even more hard-wired to love it.

I know that the rules are sometimes difficult to understand for new people.  I have no intention of attempting to explain them now.

But I feel it’s my patriotic duty to try to get more people watching curling so that they can stop blocking my ass when I tweet about it on Twitter.

Losing followers because I’m a bitch?  Totally fine with that.

Losing followers because I like curling?  Well, that’s just not right at all.

Let me give you a short list of reasons that curling is truly a sport for everyone.

A curling rink is the only place it is still legal to buy people.  That’s right.  I said it.  Forget trained monkeys.  You want to own a set of humans for a while?  Go to a bonspiel featuring a calcutta, and put in your bid on four of your very own, living, breathing people.  They will play for you.  And you will earn money off of them. Where the hell else can you do that?

It’s a clean game.  People are always sweeping up around the house.  Ladies?  This one’s for you.  It’s usually stellar enough to see a man holding a broom at all.  But when was the last time you had four of them sweeping up around your house?  Gentlemen, just ignore this comment and skip to the next one.  Mmm… beer.

The beer factor.  And by beer, I mean alcohol in general.  Look, I’ve been to bonspiels, and I’ve been to the Brier.  It doesn’t matter what level you’re playing at, there is alcohol involved.  It is part of the great history of curling that the winners of the game buy the losers a drink.  They didn’t call it the Labatt’s Brier for nothing, folks.

The stream of sexual innuendoes is never-ending.  Men?  How often do you hear a bunch of women yelling “Hurry!  Hard!  Go!  Yes, yes yes!  Really hard!” over and over again.  Ladies?  What’s better than hearing that he’s going to slide a high, hard one in?  And then there is the end blanking.  And everyone is playing with rocks.  Seriously, it’s a cornucopia of giggle-worthy references.

There.

That should do it.

Go forth and watch curling.

Canadians are used to cold weather and snow.

Actually, Western Canadians are used to it.

When snow and cold like this hit the hallowed streets of Toronto, they have to call in the National Guard to come and rescue them.

What?

It’s true.

We watch them on the news and laugh at them trying to brave the -16C temperatures and foot of snow, while we all meet at the only Tim Horton’s in town that still has power, after having donned the entire contents of our closets to spend three hours digging our cars out of the five foot snowbanks in the -35C degree air. And that’s without the wind-chill factor, folks.

And do you want to know what some fucktaco will invariably say on days like this at Tim’s?

“Cold enough for you?”

Cold enough for me?

Motherfucker, I had to use a blow dryer to thaw my dogs out when they came in from taking a piss. I have to keep blowing on my fingers while I’m typing this. And I am currently wearing a fucking scarf in my house.

Yeah, it’s fucking cold enough!

I do not do well with cold. Not not this kind of cold. The kind of bone-freezing, can’t-get-warm no matter what, nipples so hard they ache kind of cold. When it comes to that, I’ll pass.

All I want to do is stay in bed.

I was watching a football game earlier (shutup) and I was getting drowsy. I actually recall thinking to myself, “I can’t fall asleep. I’ll go into a hypothermic coma, and die. Isn’t that what they always say in the movies?”

I seriously thought that. While my teeth were chattering and I was trying to feel if I still had feet through the layers of socks, slippers and blankets.

Call me a wuss. Call me a big baby.

Call me whatever the hell you want to.

Just make sure you say it loudly, because I’ll be in bed with the covers wrapped around me tightly.

Until June.