Immigrant Song

I am off for my annual visit to the central police station to renew my visa. My usual attention to detail has temporarily lapsed and I am late in applying. This will be taken out on me with a discourse of byzantine bureaucracy. Rightfully so, I have broken the rules and must be punished.

The visit has become a ritual and involves lining up at 6:30 am in perilously cold weather in advance of an 8:00 office opening. By 7:00, the immigrant line winds far down the street. Arriving much later ensures you a ticket number in the high hundreds and a 4 to 5 hour wait to be processed ensues.

I look forward to the event as much as I look forward to a barium enema following a night of beer and curry.

Important preparations are undertaken in advance of the visit. I do not shower or shave for a week and put aside my Saville Row threads to don a soiled shell track suit with a hood.

My training with the French Foreign Legion in undercover snatch raids holds me in good stead. I urinate down my trouser leg and smear elk fat on my face to ensure I blend in.

It is 6:45 and colder than a witch’s tit. The sun rise is obscured by grey snow clouds and swirling flakes. A queue is already forming. A small crowd huddle around a steaming cauldron. Chickens run riot chased by a mangy mutt. A small tethered goat looks nervously to a dark mass sharpening a blade.

I wire myself to my iPOD. I am mission ready. I engage.

I slip seamlessly into the small queue, unnoticed. Within minutes I am in a deep iPOD coma… welcome to the shuffle zone… as if by magic, the device is delivering one rapture inducing tune followed by another. My endorphins are swimming with delight!

I am abruptly struck by the Hammer of the Gods… The zone has been violated... Robert Plant is screaming… ‘AaAaAaaaaaaaaa Aah’… ‘We come from the land of the ice and snow’… My deep meditation is breaking… I am numbing… this whole scene is fucking bleak… I am on the verge of existential depression… I have little misery left to give… Valhalla I am coming.

A familiar whine of guitars breaks through the wall of despair just as a ray of light cracks the overcast horizon… and shines on me… it is my clarion call… I break my cover… I sing at the top of my lungs, ‘I, I will be king… And you, you will be queen… Though nothing will drive them away… We can beat them, just for one day… We can be Heroes, just for one day.’

Smiles are breaking out all of the way down the line… they fall like dominoes… it is contagion! The crowd starts to sing along with me and heaves to the rhythm… ‘We can be Heroes for ever and ever… What d’you say?’

Looking into the eyes of my fellow immigrant I am stuck by the dignity… for a brief moment I understand that we are the same… we have all come from the same place… we are all going to the same place. There is a divine simplicity to this thought and again I surrender to peace.

I am abruptly struck, for a second time today, this time on the back of the head by the trampling hords scurrying to obtain their tickets as the doors to the station are opened. I try to pull myself to my feet but am suppressed to the ground by the crowd.

The silence is eerie. I am alone. The queue has been swallowed by the station. There are no tickets left today. Punishment comes in many guises.

I will come back tomorrow.

Beaverboosh

Wankers Come Together

I came across this most stimulating piece in the American Wanker while in the sauna. What a mess!

Regular devotees of this blog will know of Beaverboosh’s keen interest in the Global Wanking Crisis, and I am sure this specimen will further arouse the interests of the most hardened bloggers.

Beaverboosh

Wankers Come Together

This week sees more turmoil in the wanking sector with conditions further softening as a result of the global wanking crisis. Wankers came together in the US to save one of the oldest independent Wall Street wanks, Bear Stearns. US Fed wankers lent a hand to wankers at JP Morgan to get a hold of the wank, founded in 1923.

Bear was forced to sell their wank off at a hugely discounted price of $2 a share to keep it afloat. Critics believe the Fed has dirtied its hands by getting involved in the rescue of the wank, and at minimum should have been more transparent as it appears the wank was handed to JP Morgan on a plate.

A US Treasury spokesman said, “The government is prepared to do what it takes to maintain the stability of our wanking system, in this case, offering a free hand seemed to be the best option.”

Clients were still coming to terms with the implications but are relieved that the wank is in a safe pair of hands. A large client of the wank said, “It is too early to say, but we will stiffen our resolve, in wanking it’s not good to bite the hand that feeds you.”

Many of the wank’s investors were said to have choked on hearing news of the deal though as one long term wanking investor said with some comfort, “One in the hand is better than two in the bush.”

Observers of the wanking sector were scathing about the huge bonuses Bear wanking chiefs had received earlier in the year. “It is not as if they are going to have to live hand to mouth,” cited a representative from the wanking watchdog.

Bear’s problems arose from its over-exposure to highly illiquid wanking instruments. The crunch dealt a huge blow to the wank last week when it was unable to meet its wanking obligations due to a liquidity shortage. A senior Bear wanker publicly admitted that matters got out of hand, “Our hands were tied and we just couldn’t come up with the goods.”

Wankers at JP Morgan and the Fed immediately pumped liquidity into the wank to restore confidence. “We now have a firm grasp on the wank and will be standing firmly behind it,” said a senior spokesman for the wank.

An industry spokesman claimed that this was the best outcome for all concerned but believes that wankers at JP Morgan will have their hands full.

Copyright © American Wanker 2008. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

High Infidelity

The Governor of New York Eliot Spitzer publicly announced Monday that he had used the services of a prostitute in a Washington hotel on February 13th. Spitzer has a lovely wife and 3 daughters and was being groomed as a future presidential candidate.

Eliot, what the fuck were you thinking?

Drunk on power… insecure about your small wee wee… feeling unloved… or just following a long held Democrat tradition? At $5,000 an hour I doubt there was much money left for a decent Valentine's present for the wife.

As Attorney General Spitzer was a paragon of virtue. He engaged in witch hunts on Wall Street prosecuting those who were not whiter than white or did not sink. The US stock market rallied Tuesday on the news and posted its highest day gain since 2002. It is now alleged that he has been using prostitutes for years. My my what a spectacular fall from grace.

The French are capacious on matters of infidelity. Infidelity is a prerequisite to Grand Ecole graduates seeking appointments as government ministers or industry executives. If you do not publicly but discreetly keep a mistress you will not be considered for promotion to high office. There is no gender discrimination, married women are proliferate connivers as well. It is simply the way of life in France.

The English are promiscuous and indiscreet. Other halves are not invited to the office xmas party which is a scene of mass snogging, groping and fondling in full public display with no shame. Married people of both high and low office conduct affairs with regular aplomb, as if it was routine. A colleague of mine once shagged his new girlfriend, his ex-girlfriend and his ex-girlfriend’s best friend in the same week.

Welsh and Scottish men are rampant cheaters but I am not sure sheep shagging technically qualifies as infidelity, unless of course you are married to a sheep.

The Irish are very secretive about conducting their infidelities. If and when an affair is exposed one can be assured that 50 Hail Mary’s will be required for the transgression. Divorce is ungodly so the path to redemption is short.

The Japanese salary man is into transactional infidelity. He requires a hostess after an alcohol fuelled evening of whisky and noodles. Often, the act of infidelity is not committed due to alcoholic ineptitude, vomit and snoring. Japanese housewives retort, flying by the gaggle to Thailand to avail young boys of their services.

American men unsurprisingly large it up on the infidelity front. They have a higher number of affairs than the guy next to them with girls that have bigger hair, bigger breasts, and larger assets, and they brag about it constantly. Infidelity usually starts with a 1-800 phone number and a credit card.

Norway is small and everyone knows your business so infidelity is less common. Just as well, your apt to find the neighbour your having an affair with is a blood relation.

Canadians are more cerebral when it comes to infidelity. They are likely to talk about it and analyse it from many perspectives but never actually engage in the act of it.

I digress.

Eliot, don’t expect Wall Street to participate in your salvation following your resignation. You may be forgiven for your sins by your wife, family and friends, but you will be scorned for the rest of your life on the Street as a hypocrite of unparalleled magnitude. Principled men and women find your type vile.

Beaverboosh

Message from Mohammed

Beaverboosh receives thousands of messages every month from dedicated blog fans all over the world. This month’s e-mail bag pick is a very sweet message from Mohammed, a 5 year old from Medicine Hat Alberta.

Mohammed writes, “Dear Beaverboosh, my playtime pals and I love your weekly blog and read it during kindergarten surf hour, just before cookies and milk, and our afternoon nap. It is full of really really really neat stuff! Can you tell us how you got your name?”

Well little Mohammed, it is a frequently asked question and I can certainly cast some light on it.

I was named in the same tradition of the ancient and noble Cree Indians from Beaver Lake in what is now know as Alberta, your home province. I am delighted to share with you and your clutch of young kindergarten braves the story of the naming rights ceremony that my father passed down to me.

A young brave once asked Chief Poundmaker, “Chief, how do you name braves?”

“Ah,” responded the chief nodding his head with a tone of great importance, “when young brave is born, if I see eagle soaring in sky, I name brave Soaring Eagle, if I see bear running in woods, I name brave Running Bear, if I see wolf howling by hole, I name brave Howling Wolf... but tell me Two Dogs Fucking, why do you ask?”

In honour of our great country Canada, the First Nations, and the great Cree tradition, father conferred Beaverboosh to me at birth.

To this day I have no idea what father saw.

Beaverboosh

Teuton Kaput

Public sector strikes are threatening to ground Germany to a halt. They could be the biggest strikes since WWII and union leaders are demanding a king’s ransom. Unfortunately Germany does not have a king. I hope they knock on the door of the Prince of Hanover with the collection plate, though any contribution that requires cutting into his drinking money will likely draw naught.

I feel for the German people with long commutes and no public transportation and those with life threatening impairments requiring immediate surgery. I hope all are enjoying the unseasonable high temperatures with leisurely pursuits involving lederhosen, beer, sausages and lots of singing instead of the daily grind, or impending death.

Germany and Norway share a long and glorious history, if you overlook the occupation of Norway during the Second World War, and the introduction of the plague, which is rightfully attributed to the English. The evidence of the Hansiatic League is still a vibrant part of Norway today, though many Norwegians have traded in their sea faring duties for government jobs.

I tried to contact my German cousin von Bibermund to get an eye witness report from the ground. I could not get through. It is possible the telegraph operators have also joined the strike. I will try the post but fear they may strike as their chief has recently been outed as a tax evader. This is a terribly un-socially democratic Schadenfreude and it has shocked the nation.

To add insult to injury, I wake to the disturbing news that Nazi slave labour built my German car, or at least a predecessor. It would appear I am driving a latent model of Hitler’s staff car. I wish the best of luck to the crack American legal team seeking retribution on behalf of the surviving victims though I recommend they start with the German government and allow the targeted companies to contribute voluntarily.

My cousin von Bibermund would surely agree. We cannot blame him or his generation of captains of industry for the crimes committed by his grandfather’s generation under a demanding totalitarian regime during times of war. Anyway, his graduating class have their hands full with allegations of expense account sex (big car company), systematic bribery (big electronics company), and sub-prime abuse (big state banks).

I desperately seek news of the strife in Germany and resort to Google. I am caught by the headline ‘German Strikes Spreading Fast’ from the New York Times. I click to find the country is facing total disaster and am concerned for my Teutonic cousins!

My eyes wander to the date in the upper corner of the article. It is November 26th…. 1918!

A 19th century German pundit was once asked where he would like to be when the world ended. His reply caught everyone by surprise when he responded England. When asked why, he casually replied that he wanted to be in England when the world ended because everything happened there 10 years later.

I doubt that is still the case, if it ever was.

Beaverboosh