Having a 142nd birthday fall on a crappy, rainy Wednesday doesn't really help matters much. Why doesn't some over-paid bureaucrat wiggle the dates around, like May Two-Four weekend, so we can at least chug Canadian whiskey, wave the flag and throw up poutine on a crappy, rainy Friday night.
The good news is: unity. Thursday is guaranteed to be miserable, nationwide.
Yesterday, I heard the talk radio guy asking the obviously unemployed and under-educated listeners who their favourite Canadian was. The usual boring suspects rolled in: Wayne Gretzky. Don Cherry. Every other Canadian NHL player. Stompin' Tom. Shania (hold my hair back I am going to vomit) Twain. One loser said John A. Macdonald, like they were drinking buddies back in high school or something. Never mind that the so-called father of confederation was a Conservative, and a volatile drunk, he wasn't even Canadian. And he married his cousin.
My vote goes to the moron who decided a fucking beaver would be the proud emblem of our nation's heritage. A beaver.
So Happy Canada Day people. Looks like the guy holding the Bic lighter down by the harbour will get rained out again this year, but fireworks or no fireworks, we have big plans for this first of July. I am going to dump the dehumidifier. Twice. Do a little laundry. Scrub my proud emblem of our nation's heritage. Feed my other favourite Canadian some of our nation's pride – Kraft Dinner. And if the sun peeks out, I may even toss some burgers on the grill, because I have another craving for non-native Indian Patak's Hot Lime Chili Pickle.
Then I'll wrap up Canada Day, the way it began. On the can.