Don’t Forget The Friggin’ Comma
June 11, 2010 in Other Cultures
Ran into Wordsmoker the other day, and damned if this isn’t the best educational site I ever did see. Already I feel smarter. I learned about phoney denim diapers, names for Sarah Palin’s breasties (we call them tits in Canada), that Helen Thomas is an international idiot, and some helpful hints on yoga that I will now incorporate into Lady’s Eskimo-cises aerobics routines.
I turned to Lady just the other day and said, “This is a great website where people come to learn. I want to be a Wordsmoker. The world needs a strong Eskimo voice to raise Canada’s standing in the world, and I’m just the Eskimo to do it.”
Lady farted and said, “Yeah, so what, who cares?”
So here I am. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let me tell you a little about me. My name is Nanook, from Canada. That’s my real name, and don’t forget the “, from Canada”. I got tired of everybody thinking I was a Mongolian Eskimo or a Siberian Eskimo. Some guy asked me if I was one of those Bulgarian Eskimoes, but I set him straight. I’m Nanook, from Canada and damned proud of it, so I went to court and changed my last name to “, from Canada”. Don’t forget the friggin’ comma. Everyone does.
I’m a 57-year-old gay Eskimo. I live in an odd little house I like to call the ‘gloo with my much-younger boyfriend, the former Miss Drag Queen Vancouver, 1985, known professionally as Lady Miss Bunny. These days I just call him Lady.
I’ve even got a couple of husky-like dogs. There’s the little one Lady calls Max. I call him Yukon King – 21.4 pounds of killer pug who can pull a really small sled 50 feet without resting. The other guy’s Luke. Yeah, I know, real stupid dog’s name. What can I say? I got drunk with a bunch of Christians and before you know it, I’d accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my own personal saviour, signed up for the Billy Graham Missions mailing list and woke up the next morning feeling like shit with a 75-pound dog named Luke the Apostle sitting arse-first on my face. You gotta love a dog if you’ve sniffed his arse up close.
And then there’s Tatoo, the dead cat. We Eskimoes, we’re pretty spiritual. We’ve got polar bear spirits and whale spirits and I think there is even a seal spirit. We do love our seals. And now I’ve got a dead cat spirit living in the ‘gloo, driving me friggin’ nuts. It’s tough being a spiritual Eskimo.
I live in south Canada, just below the Arctic Circle. I wouldn’t live in the Far North if you friggin’ paid me. It’s fucking cold up there. Here in the sunny south, we can plant our gardens in late June and hope the hell the plants break through the permafrost by September, when the whole country is crushed by six months of total darkness.
And I’m proud to be an Eskimo. There aren’t many of us left. There’s me and Lady, but he’s only half-Eskimo. His mother thought she was shagging an Eskimo, but in the total darkness she couldn’t tell. Turns out it was a little Pilipino guy from Manila who was passing through on his way to Nome. Didn’t affect Lady much, though. He still looks like an Eskimo, but he starts every sentence with a P which is friggin’ annoying after 12 years, let me tell you.
And now I am a Wordsmoker, and damned proud of that too. And I’m gonna give you the slant from Canada – from the Eskimo point of view. So get ready. Nothing’s off limits to a gay socially conservative liberal Eskimo with socialist leanings and weirdly erotic fantasies of Ayn Rand, naked…except maybe Madonna. I don’t do Madonna. Lady just cries when I do Madonna. She’s an icon in the gay Eskimo community, untouchable and sacrosanct (learned that word from my Christian drinking buddies).
Now I gotta head over to the ‘gloo. There’s seal to be sliced. We’re having seal sushi, again.
See ya, eh?