Doctor, I said on my last trip to the shrink. My wife has histrionic personality disorder.
What makes you think that?
Last night while stoned on camel dung hash she kept repeating, How do you get this damn thing to stop blinking? She was trying to figure out how to make her Tamagotchi have sex.
Is she American? he asked.
No, I said. As a matter of fact, she thinks she’s Queen Elizabeth, queen of fucking everything. My wife whips me when I disobey, too. Imagine – she has me whipped bloody!
Maybe she’s the self you have to live with, he said with a sigh.
What do you mean? I asked.
Well, he said, shifting in his seat. Look at Charlotte Roche, author of Wetlands. She once wrote a book about Angela Merkel naked in the sauna. Like some landscape artist on crack in London, it was a surreal collage of naked pictures of girls with tube breasts, American females totally shaved in German saunas, pictures of zoo animals with buggy eyes copulating while making screaming granny sounds, nude klingons, photos of naked ladies and girls from Squamish, sex in wheelchair pictures, photos of spanking all over Europe, ending with helpful tips on how to make your own shank out of a toothbrush and things to alleviate cramp.
Look, I said, I couldn’t care less about Charlotte Roche’s chaotic nightmare, saunas or Angela Merkel’s butt. I’m worried about my wife! Just the other day she came out with: I’m so British, I shit the queen!
Perhaps you should bring your wife’s cuddly butt into the office next time, he said.
I would, I said, but it might be easier to drag her to a cave dwelling in Capadoccia or skating on canals in Holland.
Hmmm… let’s deal with your wife when the time comes. You aren’t thinking about quitting blogging are you? he suddenly asked.
What? What gives you that idea?
You, Canadian skier Ian, may be the author of more than 300 posts ranging from chess and Hitler to Dutch canal winter skating, but you’re starting to look like a Canadian idiot. An EasyJet crashing into Big Ben wouldn’t make half the mess this blog is turning into. You’ve got everything from how to make a bike look crappy and the dangers of ipods in saunas all the way to 12-year-olds buying condoms and a nude olive run video clip.
Besides, you hardly ever post lately, and when you do, it’s some take on something that happened 30 years ago.
Don’t give me any of your putrid paranoia! I said. I never set out to write the definitive answer to everything like some Greenland girls’ nude blog. Those are just search terms that landed here! And it’s not just text searches, either. Most of them cough up photos via google image searches.
Really? he said, perking up. You mean if you post photos, and stick tags on them, they will show up in searches?
Sure, I said. Everyone knows that, even Derbyshire nude grannies, Canada’s most toxic waste dump/flute player or a jobless bum. Besides, the less often I post, the more hits I get. Go figure!
Well, he said with a sigh. The hour’s up. Same time next week?
Why not? I said. I hope by then you’ll have done something about the reading selection in your waiting room. Monocle Magazine is shit, and the “little red book” of Mao, 1968 is really out of date, don’t you think? You should subscribe to magazines that answer life’s imponderables, things like what if the world stops spinning, or is nine too young to have a baby?
No way, he said. To pass the time in a waiting room, it’s much better to read all about camel penis and skunk families in Montreal while peeking at pictures of mausi naked. Her oldest got sprayed by a skunk, you know.
Just in case you’ve never read my sidebar, every line in this post is drawn from a search that coughed up this blog – most often as an image search.