Inside The Box

Whichever kinda crap…

“Happy Festivus!”

Thanks. Happy fucking festivus to you too.

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That is the traditional way to celebrate the Festivus Season here on the Sunshine Coast.

I’ve got my pole, and there’s one other person here who actually knows what “Festivus” is—

“Where exactly on the Sunshine Coast?”

Fuck off.

That—Festbok, as I call it—is merely a poor man’s Innis & Gunn. A little stronger, and a little nastier.

But it gets the job done.

What’s that you say? The holiday season has passed—I mean, what the fuck, it’s February already—and I’m a knob for continuing to celebrate some made-up bullshit holiday?

Meh. Perhaps. But Festivus ends when I say it ends. I celebrated all through December and January…

And it got me through.

Then reality set it.

Festbok must be managed properly, or it can be…fatal.

One per hour, and something to eat after three hours (like or not, stuff that crap down). Or else…

You don’t wanna know.


“Did you actually celebrate Christmas?”

Oh my god. Oh my fucking god.


Why would you even ask?

Of course not.

Whenever I scampered out of my box, I made like a rabbit—and the smiling people destined to say, “Merry Christmas” were the snarling wolves.

A few times I wasn’t far enough away…and I had to nod and…and…fucking smile.

It’s all okay now, though.

“So, how’s it going, Nord? Haven’t heard from you in a while?”


Oh, well…I should write a short story about that…

Called, All Manner of Douchebaggery.

But I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. I mean, what else can a by-gone be except a bygone?

Huh? Yeah. I just blew your mind.

Naw, it’s been mostly wretched with brief periods of intermittent moments of brilliance brought on by drugs, drunkenness, or other tomfoolery und hoohah.

Yes. There has been horseplay, and merriment. Huzzah!

How have you been?

Yeah? Right on. Good on ya, mate.


Despite what you might think…I’m not really crazy. I am, as anyone can demonstrate, a madman. Absotively. Posilutely. But I’m not insane.

And anyone with the fortitude, and dedication—and diligence—can easily verify my sanity, using modern psychology and parapsychology and entomology.

Yeah, shit man. I passed all their tests.

Oh yeah. Go ask them.

Anyway, I’m gone in ten days. Into the wild blue yonder.

Back into the shit.

To a new spot. With a new face. A new identity. A new attitude. New glasses, shoes. New hairpiece. Now I look like my childhood hero…


Aw, yeaw!

Yeah. Fuck yeah. Gonzo.

“So, if you could have voted for Trump or Hillary, who would you have voted for?”

Eat my shit. No. Don’t. Instead: Swim across a lake of battery acid, through a maze of floating burning tires, just to eat the corn out of my…

Okay, okay.

I got carried away. But that can happen when faced with such a despicable question. An insulting, stinging question so devoid of sense—

“Who would you vote for, you commie nazi skinhead hippy creep!?”

As a Canadian, I’d have to vote for the candidate who best exemplifies the qualities sought by those who espouse global programs like “Political Correctness” and “Carbon Taxes,” yet I do not consider myself Canadian—or belonging to any nation—yadda yadda…so I wouldn’t vote for either. I’d sooner vote for a pig, rather than scumbag criminal A or douchebag billionaire B.


I’ve only voted once, and it was the most horrible thing I’ve ever done. I got suckered. Duped. Bushwacked. The oyster was shucking me!

Anywhat, never again.

“It’s all bullshit, and it’s all bad for you.”
—George Carlin.

I’ve been clean ever since and there’s no going back now.

No, not even hypothetically.

Hey, Trump fans: he’s a stooge; a few things will change, but the big ball will keep on rolling…

So go have a day.

BCing You!

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Yeah. Naw, I didn’t write that. Although I suppose it applies to me, too. In some ways, I’m getting worse; although overall…I am improving. In some other ways, though, I am…hmmm…that’s another story.

How about you? Are you getting better?

While I can’t take credit for the writing—it was written upon the seat of a pic-nic table, near the food bank, which we frequent to gather and partake of the cannabis emanations—I can take credit for the June bug.

Well, finding him, moving him, positioning him, photographing him, then hanging with him, listening to tunes and smoking dubes. The little fella was content to cling to my thumb for a long while (he only hissed a couple times when I had to turn him on his back…he didn’t like that, but he’s an actor, so he understands what’s at stake here), until a couple of guys showed up, then I put him on the table. Soon after he started walking and then flew up, and, in a slow half-circle, plopped back down on the shoulder of my fleece sweater.

And there he sat for a good ten minutes.

I finally set him down on the French dude’s packsack. Where he rested for half an hour, then abruptly hissed, crawled forward a few awkward steps, then launched himself into the air, caught a breeze and was gone. (His back armour splits to conceal a set of wings, and when the two sets of armour are in the air they combine to act as sails. I watched one before take off and cruise a couple football fields straight up, catch an air current, then fucking sail away. Gods knows how many miles they can cover if they get high enough. Righteous bugs, man.)

[No fucking harm came to any fucking goddamn June bugs in the making of this stupid fucking blog post.

Assholes. What do you think I am? Some sort of cunt? He’s my friend. All June bugs and spiders are my friends.]

He’s alright…here he is…

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He got better.

Better than you.

So fuck off.


Heading up tomorrow.

So…yeh. There.

Uh huh.


Be well?

Don’t eat a shotgun shell?

Throw your mamma down the wishing well?

Take a nap in a church bell?

Go to hell?

Got a storm to quell?

Or some souls to sell?

I gotta go rebel yell.

It’s been swell.

Happy Juneuary!

Yes, it’s that time again, ladies and gentlemen—and whatever the fuck else you trans and tards call yourselves.
Yes, yes. *Happy month to all.

(*Where applicable. Some restrictions apply. See stores for details.)

Uh huh.

As far as I can tell (read: I didn’t research), this appears to be a local phenomenon—in which “June,” which is usually quite warm and dry, resembles instead “January,” which is usually cold and wet.

Every seven years or so it happens here on the coast.

And, apart from those complaining they can’t spend enough time in the sun, it only really effects gardeners, farmers, and growers…

That’s furry stem mold on a skunk clone.

That’s one of the ways Juneuary effects growers. I’ve been on ‘mold watch’ since I got here from Edmonton. It was worse with the plants that had buds (that one above

is only six weeks old), because buds don’t do so well in cool, damp situations; one little leaf could die and curl between two buds, start rotting, then the mold spreads to the bud, if it’s not caught, and then you could lose those precious buds. Yunno?

Six purple kush, three white widow, and two blueberry plants I’ve already looked over for various problems, mostly mold, and all but two of these have been dried and processed by now.

There’s some more.

Anyway, I’ve just received a crash course in growing marijuana under ‘Murphy’s Law.’ (Almost—we salvaged a lot of bud. Had it been the worst case, we would’ve lost it all.)

All thanks to Juneuary.

Yeah, I got two ounces out of that awesome white widow of mine. I traded G one ounce of it for 4 quarters of other (preemo) weed. So, I’ve been ‘sampling’ a lot (mainly the ones drying, the ones I tended here, before and) lately.

The white widow is still the best. Cheese is good; critical is better. Blueberry is another I’d put in the top five.

I do like the kush and skunk types, although it depends—the indica strains I do better smoking at night, with nothing to do but rest and vegetate. The sativa strains I can start with a wake-n-bake and still get shit done until early evening.

Anywhat, I’ll have quite a bit (of really good shit, as well as trim/bunk) to take up and sample…

Yesterday I got some gas and oil for my new (5HP 4 stroke) outboard, so, maybe tomorrow I’m gonna clamp it on something and stick it in a barrel of water, then run it through the first two phases of breaking it in.

If all goes well, I’ll be back in ‘Chelt in about a week, I think. Then up the Inlet soon after…


[“Tray of Critical.”]