I am O. Pinionist
This is My Story

By: O. Pinionist

While reading this piece imagine Morgan Freeman's voice narrating. It has to be Morgan Freeman. If not, I'm out. Forget this nonsense.

Then we agree that at some point ,in the hopefully near future, Morgan Freeman will be saying the words, “O. Pinionist, This is his story.”

After that he will say all of this next stuff.

"I met the ninja one night many years ago, in a bar. Yup, sat right next to an extremely lithe figure, dressed completely like a ninja, and over the course of many mojitos I explained to him/her about the unhappiness that I felt in my life at the time.

The ninja listened. Like no one before. Only interrupting to order me another beverage. I bore my soul for multiple hours and many minutes. I used to view this as a mistake, a horrible error in drunk judgement, just like one of the many that had come before. Now I have come to see that ninja and his/her trusty sidekick as the saviours who had returned me my sanity. It took a while though.

The ninja walked me to my home that night, and when I woke there was a note taped to my forehead. I still remember the feeling of dread that came over me when I opened my eyes that afternoon. All I saw was white, just white, everywhere. I was scared. I naturally assumed that I drank so much, the night before, that my eyes would no longer work correctly.

Then I realized...there was a note taped to my forehead. I wasn't sure if I could decipher the words, it was hand-written after-all, and in cursive. So I turned to my elderly neighbour for assistance. Amelia read it to me. Then she explained what it meant, twice.

“You are now O. Pinionist. You have sworn your allegiance to The Satirist. Whether or not you remember this is immaterial. You will honour your pledge. You will write and write and write until you write something worth reading. We know your deepest and darkest secrets. We know what depths you have sunken to, and we have social media accounts. We know what really happened to your snake, Fluffy, and we won't forget. We also have Buttons. We will feed Buttons. You need not worry about your tarantula. Buttons is in good hands. Now write.”

This was 15 years ago. It has taken me almost 15 years to write two pieces that some group of crazy, albeit dedicated, people have deemed worthy of publication.

I received an envelope the next day. Inside this nondescript manilla package I found a photo of Buttons, happily eating a mouse, and another note: “Send well-written pieces to satirist.ca and you will see your arachnid once more.” I had to assume that this communique was from the spider-nappers. The odds of someone else sending me this photo were just too slim.

I did what any red-blooded tarantula owner would do, I wrote. Crap really, but words on paper.

I emailed my writing to satirist.ca. I received my work back with corrections everywhere, but no tarantula. I called the police, but they didn't care. I called my member of parliament, also didn't care. I called Maury, he wanted to give Buttons a paternity test, but ultimately refused to help me with my cause.

They sent me more photos. I wrote more garbage. Then they sent me back Buttons. Presumably, they had given up on me.

I could have taken my tarantula out for fried chicken, in celebration of his newfound liberty. But no, I kept writing. When Buttons would plead to go out for walks, I wrote. I could no longer take him to the park to play fetch, for ice cream, or to the opera; his three favourite things. I was a struggling writer, and struggle I did. At first my writing was similar to that of a twelve year-old texting. It evolved. Eventually I began writing full sentences, then paragraphs, and now an entire page and a half.

It became an obsession. My fate had been revealed to me by satirist.ca. My life's work would be to compose something that someone, somewhere, possibly sitting on a toilet, would find mildly amusing. Now 15 years later here I am, with 2 whole pieces published on some website that most likely is read by no one.

This just goes to show you that anything is possible, if you work hard and have small dreams."

The Great Equalizer

By: O. Pinionist

A long time ago, in a land slightly to our south, there was a man. He built a company. That company made guns. His name was Samuel Colt.

After his death, his company found innovative ways to make guns more affordable for the average person who needed a gun. Lots of average people needed guns.
It was awesome.

Everybody could get this gun, so no one could really mess with anyone else. Injustice corrected in one simple hand-held device.

A beautiful capitalistic response to a complex social issue. Not a solution, just a response. The actual solution has evaded us as a society ever since.

The internet is the next great palm-size peacemaker.

It can make a genius out of anyone, given the right context and the proper search engines.

Similarly to the revolver, the responsibility, with this great intellectual equalizer, rests with the user.

People have been empowered like never before. We can use the information at our disposal to craft things from beer bottles, find cheap flights, and cook stuff.

Unfortunately, people are using this resource for negative and destructive purposes. People are exploiting pets for financial gain on youtube, individuals are associating with known morons, and many of our treasures, the rich and famous, are in jeopardy of being revealed as vacuous due to their own postings, we must stop this now!!!

Imagine if that's what people did way back then with guns? If people just started shooting each other?
It would have been a catastrophe.

I'm just grateful that the theory of guns equating to equality was proven 100% true. After all, humans are known to be logical, fair, and moderate. Just ask our animal neighbours.

  CURLING: Ultimate Spectator Sport

By: O. Pinionist

My opinion is that curling is the soft-spoken giant among professional sports. This seemingly simple match of awesomeness effectively turns playing shuffle board on ice into a profession. There are people making money all over this great world with massive endorsements like Bost-- P---- and a bunch of companies I have never heard of before, or since. It is one of the only sports that initially makes any dude on a couch feel like they could go pro. Anyone on a couch. Preferably someone with cleaning and ice-walking experience. This sport reaches an untapped commercial market. People who watch curling.

There will never be a PED scandal or deflated rocks fiasco to tarnish the game's image. Ex-curlers will not incur CTE. There will be no revelations of FIFA-esque scandals. The only foe this sport may face is global warming.

They quietly excite the viewer with drama, tension, and stuff hitting stuff. I recall with great pride the moment that, while anxiously awaiting the NBA all-star game on a Sunday, I finally understood the sheer beauty of this game.

Let me paint you a picture, there was absolutely nothing else to watch. We (my better-half and I) had returned from a trip to Europe, and in need of sports television, I turned to curling. These gladiators fling rocks with abandon, and I was unaware for far, far, too many years in this life. This is the perfect spectator pastime. You can do absolutely ANYTHING else while watching curling. You could learn a new sport while watching this sport, and still miss very little of the action. Yet, it it is a sport. One with a small, but I'm sure dedicated, audience.

It allows the spectator directly into the lives of these folks, but demands nothing of you besides some occasional glancing toward the television.You can hear every ounce of motivation one teammate sends towards the other, but at the same time, curling doesn't ask you for anything. I love the idea of high-lights for this sport, I want to see the best do what earned them the title. Trick-shot curling could one day possibly rival the slam dunk contest.

The teamwork necessary to reach the Olympian heights of curling, must take years to master. These clubs are small tribes. Each with their own language. Great terminology, regarding the quality of a “sweep”, or the nature and size of a “curl”. One tribe may use terms like clean, hard, while another may simply decide to go 12-foot or not. Peelers means something, and there are numerous prayers.

The amazing thing is that this athletic endeavour requires three individuals to work as one to control the fate of a pretty big rock on a sheet of ice. I can only hope that those who'd ventured onto a melting lake to throw rocks, at one another's rocks, over the centuries, were able to pull out their teammates with the very brooms they held.

I am by no means an expert, having only watched the game once, but I know what I like, and I like listening to the friendly Canadian banter of these athletes discussing how quickly to freeze, tap, or bump, while building model airplanes in my basement and learning to speak French

Stay tuned for more from O. Pinionist