The Canadians Might Be Coming          

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Curling: The 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.

ASHAMED for Canada            

There we were, me, Carl, and my good friend, we'll call him Bob, wandering the streets long after being forced out of the bar. There were only other inebriated youth on the streets and all of the food vendors had closed.

In the distance we saw a majestic sign, high above all of the others, 24-hour drive-thru. I will never forget how that misspelled 'through' taunted me.

We courageously endured metre after metre in our journey to 24-hour drive-thru. We were drunk, and we were hungry, and we were free. We came to the “restaurant” and were barred from entrance by, of all things, a lock. We used our literacy, hardwon over the course of our educations, to decipher the hours of operation sign. We learned that the “dining room” was closed at this late hour, but the drive-thru was open 24 glorious hours.

We took a deep breath, each, and continued. We came to the window, with no cars in front, or behind, and the young lady behind the drive-thru counter informed us that we could not be served unless we were in a car.
No matter how much drunk-logic was flung in her direction, she was steadfast in her refusal to deviate from what she called company policy.

There we were, drunk, hungry, confused, in a parking lot, losing all hope in humanity. We watched as cars came and went. Each picking up their own bag of nourishment. In our fugue, it took us many minutes to formulate any semblance of a plan. Formulate a plan we did. It was a masterful solution to our problems.

We resolved to ask a passing car to purchase items on our behalf. We collected a small fortune, $15, in change. We approached a small civic, and when we came to the driver's door the young woman looked upon us with terror and peeledout of the lot.

I knew that Bob was the problem, I told him as much. He didn't seem too concerned, most likely because he was intently focused on how to navigate the empty parking lot.
I approached the next vehicle on my own. The driver rolled down his window and agreed to do our bidding. He dutifully took my order for cheeseburgers. I returned to Bob while our accomplice ordered at the window, paid, received his bag, and then drove away. He left us there, like 15 year-olds at the LCBO, with nada.

When we finally reached our room, dejected and dehydrated, Bob passed out imediately. He slept the blissfull sleep of the ignorant. I lay in bed, and as the room spun I understood that in this world there will always be inequality. I resolved in that moment to build an equine empire. I would never have to endure another night like the one I had just survived. Until last night, when I saw Buttercup, a victim of the same unjust system that brought me to my knees years before.

Carl, just Carl wrote:

Ashamed for Canada

This poor excuse for a website (?) sent agents to steal my collection of horses. They took one beautiful stallion, and they failed to get the other 27. This was due to both my dexterity with a shotgun, and the simple reality of trying to take 28 horses. F#%6king idiots. Then they sent me this photo.

They want my opinion, well here it is, (Severe profanity removed for the sake of this website's ego).

But then I noticed something in the photo, my Buttercup had to wait in a parking lot because, in this “first world” country, we do not have truly accessible venues for the purchase of fast food. This, for the purpose of this writing, will be my focus.

The drive-through is a segregationist ploy, plain and simple, aimed at keeping the masses in check. In this country I was brought up to value all of our citizens. However, at every fast food location, there are 2 types of people. Those with cars, and those without. You can see it on the face of every person that has to actually come into the establishment. Sometimes, being forced to leave their beloved animals outside to brave the elements, while their human is accosted by the staff.

This photo brought back a very unpleasant memory for me, and I was hoping that I could forget, but I couldn't. I can't. These bastards at took that away from me.

I was in my first year of University. A bright-eyed, optimistic 27 year-old. Until that night.

We were on our way back to the dorms after an evening of good-spirited drinking. We required something to soak up all of that sweet liquor.