The kindness of Mrs O

Have you ever noticed that all those animal rights people look the same? I knew one once, she was a little old lady who lived alone, well not actually alone, she lived with 7 cats, five dogs (big dogs I might add), a few hamsters, and a parakeet. I was asked to visit her home once to install a satellite system. (yeah, I am good at that sort of thing or anything else that deals with electronics or wires).

Upon entering her home, the strong smell of urine met my nose. I wanted to leave, but given the fact that I have a soft spot in my heart for anyone who does volunteering in our community, I held my breath and entered the house. Her house was old, and in urgent need of repairs. I had heard that she had money, left to her by her husband; but she chose to spend the money on stray animals rather than herself or her home. I attempted to sit on the chair and discuss the details of the installation, but she stopped me before my ass met the couch cushions. She said that the spot I chose to sit belonged to ‘poopsy’, aptly named for his habit of pooping where ever he got comfortable, and that the certain spot was his favorite spot on the chair. nuff said. I chose to stand instead.

Mrs. ‘O’, as she liked to be referred to, was a tall woman in stature, with straight grey hair tied up in a bun. She wore old dresses like you would see in the black and white movies of yesteryear, and judging from the decor in her home, she collected things that became too dear for her to discard. Everywhere I looked, there was either a cat or a dog, curled up in any spot where they could find comfort.

It was apparent that Mrs. O stood up most often, as the animals seemed to take ownership of every room in the house. In fact, there was not a spot in the home where a person could sit even if they wanted to, as the animals chose to lay wherever they wanted to.

Mrs. O used to volunteer her time with the local ASPCA, a ‘No Kill’ animal shelter where the volunteers got just a little too attached to the animals at their shelter. I remember on one occasion, I visited the area in search of a puppy for my son. They had several animals there, but they would not adopt out any of them. “I would miss the little guys”, Mrs O replied when I asked her for a puppy. I think she missed the intention of the organization.

You would see Mrs. O every time there was a charity function in our community; she would usually sit at a large table, selling various items and raising money to keep the shelter afloat.

I visited the shelter again a few weeks ago, in search of a kitten for my niece. I seen Mrs. O in the main room of the shelter, and upon entering, I was surprised to find that it was not Mrs O that I had seen, but rather, the newest volunteer at the center. I asked if Mrs O was around, and was shocked to find out that she had passed on a few weeks back. The lady, who looked a lot like Mrs O informed me that the kind lady had willed all her life’s savings to the shelter.

Advertisement

Nobody told me they’d be days like this

Some days you should just stay in bed, where it is safe. This day was one of those days. I got up at 7 a.m., and noticed that we were getting sloppy snow. That is enough to go back to bed, but no, I had to stay up. From there, the dog wanted to go outside. She is a Teacup Pomeranian. When she came back in, she looked like a sponge mop on a dirty floor. Had to clean her up. The little feller had to go to school, but with the terrible weather, and the dark mornings we have been experiencing lately, I decided to give him a ride to the bus stop at the end of the lane. The dog wanted to go, and rather than listen to the bark of a Pomeranian (Which is hell on the ears, even when you are half deaf like me…My woman calls it ‘Selective hearing’, but don’t you think that if it was selective, I could tune out the dog barking?)

Anyway, here I was, my work lunch in one hand, the pom in the other, and the ground as slick as oil, and you guessed the rest. My two feet came out from under me, my neck snapped forward and my head crashed to the ground, right in the deepest puddle in the yard. (I had parked my car on the back lawn so my lady could get her car out if she needed it)

Everything I wore was soaked and covered with mud. I ran back into the house to change, and after a total wardrobe change, the little guy misses the bus, so I have to bring him to school. I end up getting to work late,and even worse, I ended up with a slight concussion. Add to that the fact that when I changed my clothing, I forgot to check the mirror, the entire back of my head was soaked with caked on mud. What a day! Tomorrow I plan to stay in bed…~~~

Me ‘n Ricky

Growing up in rural Newfoundland back in the sixties was not easy task. We were dirt poor, and by dirt poor, I mean no electricity, no running water, etc. As much as a child of today would have no way of understanding how we made it without all the conveniences of today, we kids thought we had it pretty good.

As a child of the baby boom, I always had plenty of friends to play with when I was little. Living in a small community where everyone was related in some way, there were lots of family members my age.

Despite all the kids my age, I chose to hang out with Ricky. Ricky was a child in a household even poorer than mine. While I was an only child at the time, Ricky had six other brothers and sisters. His dad worked when he could find it, but overall, they lived pretty much well below the poverty line.

Ricky was a special child who never really got a fair chance in life. As a toddler, he got into his mother’s birth control pills (with seven children, she obviously did not use them much) and he ate every one of them. The doctors said that this may have been the reason for the learning disability he had to live with, and his stuttering, but I am not too sure.

Ricky could never finish a sentence without saying “I got ta…I got ta…I got ta”, and he could not pronounce his ‘R’s, which made the other kids laugh at him whenever he tried to speak. The kids put the nickname ‘Wabbit’ on poor Ricky, and that name stuck with him all his life. I never laughed, instead I became his friend and protector. When others poked fun at him and called him mean names, I got angry at them. I spent a great deal of my time angry at those kids, because they never stopped bullying poor Ricky.

Despite all the bullying, Ricky and I were great friends. He was always at my house, sometimes too much, but nonetheless, he was always welcome.

We made go carts. On one occasion, we made a go cart with two rope steering handles, and lying on the cart like a luge from the Olympics, we traveled quickly down one of the biggest hills in the community, and right under an oncoming pulp truck. I seen my short life flash before me as we went under the huge trailer. I still remember the rush of adrenalin we both received as we flew out the other side, and had the poor driver of the truck cuss loudly at us both. We were on cloud nine. If my parents seen that, I would have been grounded until I was 60. Ricky’s parents probably would not have even cared.

Ricky’s parents were very different than mine were. While my parents were kind and nurturing, Ricky’s parents were…well, they were different. His mom thought a lot of her kids, but his dad, he was different, real different. I think that due to the fact that his parents were so poor, and that there were so many of them, that their parenting skills were challenged to the point where they could not handle them. His parents were also uneducated. Neither of them could read or write.

Ricky’s dad was part of a very large family who grew up in a logging camp, miles away from civilization. Ricky’s dad never went to school, thus the reason why he could not read or write. His dad was not a stupid man, he could do carpenter work, weld, and do mechanic work quite well.

These kids knew only each other, and did not mix well with strangers. Ricky’s dad was a worker. He was a relatively small man, barely reaching five feet tall, but despite his small stature, he was strong, and quite the logger in his time. Work was important to Ricky’s dad, and the only other thing important to him (not his eight children) was camping and fishing, which he and Ricky’s mom did every weekend, rain, snow or shine. The kids virtually raised themselves.

As I said earlier, Ricky had a large family, whom of which grew up to be very different. Frankie was a very rude person who did well in school. His mother praised Frankie to be a genius, while she said Ricky was a dummy. Georgina was an outcast as a child and even more now as an adult. Della lacked social skills, Lavina was a trouble maker and a meddler. Shirley, she was just annoying, and so was Stanley.

In our community, Ricky’s family bore the jokes of the community. The other kids said that they were dirty (they were) and that their parents did gross things and if you ate there you would die. I am not sure if you would die, but I do remember on one occasion, Ricky’s dad stored his freshly caught salmon in the bathtub next to the toilet for a few days. Another occasion seen Ricky’s dad scrape moths from the butter that had been sitting on the table for the entire day, and butter a sandwich for one of his kids. So yeah, they were dirty.

On the bus, Ricky’s family were always accused of having head lice (they actually did have head lice) and having a particular odor. (the house they lived in had a particular odor, so I would imagine they would have smelled this way as well)

So just think about it. Poor Ricky had a learning disability. His family were made fun of by the entire community. They had head lice. They had a smell of their own. They were poor. But Ricky was nice, and he was my friend.

Ricky had very low esteem (are you surprised?) and when anyone paid attention to them, he stood high and did whatever they asked. Ricky also made poor choices and he was easy to take advantage of. This may be the reason why he went from living in my community to living out of a refrigerator box on the streets of Toronto.

The beginning of bad choices came when my uncle asked Ricky if he wanted to make a few extra dollars. (it is strange how a ‘few extra dollars’ always turns out to be a bad thing) My uncle, whom I hate and will never forgive) asked that Ricky take a few school days off to help him paint some cars that he had been working on. He agreed to pay Ricky $50 per week (not per car, and Ricky had to do lots to earn that money)

Although Ricky was no scholar, dropping out of school at 15 to work on old cars was not a  great career choice, and was without a doubt the major factor of Ricky’s difficult adult life.

Ricky ended up working from morning until dark for $50 per week, and he did good work. He sanded cars (without a mask because my uncle was too cheap to buy him one), he painted the cars, in fact, he did everything while my uncle made the money and did nothing.

Despite all the work Ricky did, he was not making much money, which turned out to be no money when my uncle decided that instead of paying Ricky money, he would give him cigarettes and alcohol. I remember Ricky telling me that he began to smoke cigarettes. Ricky’s parents were chain smokers, and they saw nothing wrong with Ricky smoking if they didn’t have to buy them for him.

I worked hard to change Ricky’s mind, but he insisted on smoking and then, even worse, drinking. This decision spiraled into a life of alcoholism for poor Ricky, who was never really given a fair chance in life. Eventually, Ricky left home for the land of riches, Toronto. (This was back in the seventies, where the Gold Rush was in Ontario, and work was plentiful, even if you did not have your high school diploma)

I never heard from Ricky until about ten years after he left. His mom had died from Lung Cancer from her years of smoking. When he came home, he still wore the same shirt he left home with. This may seem like nonsense, but it is true. I visited my old friend, and tried to find out a little about what his new life was about, but he would not talk about it. In fact, he would not speak to me at all. The person who stood in front of me was not the little boy I played dinkies with, he was not the little boy who rode bicycle with me for hours on in, he was not the little boy who loved to go fishing in the creek behind my dad’s house. The man who stood in front of me was an addict. He used many dangerous drugs, he chain smoked, and he was an alcoholic. This broke my heart. I closed my eyes, and I imagined a time where things were very different. A time where the two of us went camping with our families, and where we ran in big fields behind my grandfather’s house, and where we talked about the future and how our dreams will come true.

He left soon after the funeral, and I never heard from him for another 15 years. He contacted me via Facebook to tell me that he was still living. I was surprised by this. Not because he contacted me, but because he was still alive. I figured that the last time I seen him, his life would soon be over, but apparently his daughters from many failed relationships found him, and made him part of their lives. He told me that he had five daughters, each from a different relationship, and that for once in his life, he felt needed. The girls have also contacted me, and thanked me for being their dad’s friend when he needed one. Each week, I check out his Facebook page, and get a chance to see what love can do for a person, how love can save a life.

I categorized this story as “Family Stuff” because even though Ricky was not a family member (he may have been a third or fourth cousin), he was very close to my heart, and always will be. I just thank God that when it came to making the choices he made, I chose differently.

Smoking. How cool is that?

I just spent the weekend volunteering at a youth conference that focused on drugs and addiction. We had a low student turnout. (surprised?)  In preparing for the conference, high school students from several communities in the area were invited, as we tried to explain to youth the dangers of drugs and alcohol.

During the convention, I noticed a student making several trips outdoors. On this particular October day, the weather was cold and damp, but nonetheless, this student kept leaving the building, half dressed, and in a hurry. The student was in grade nine, and probably around 15 years old. When I took the time to follow him out, I noticed that he had been going out for smoke breaks.

I waited for him to come in, and upon that moment, I engaged in a conversation with him. He was a very polite person, and very easy to talk to. Of course, our conversation eventually got to his smoking habit. I asked him how much he smoked, and his reply was that he smoked whatever his mom provided him each morning. I was mortified. In this day and age, with what we know about the dangers of smoking, some mother was giving her 15 year old cigarettes. He said that he figured that he smoked around a pack a day, and that he really enjoyed smoking. The student went on to explain how cool he felt as he smoked. I had to say something. I asked him how it could be cool that all the other students were inside, sitting in the cafeteria in conversations, while he was standing out in the cold, smoking. He defended his statement by saying that where he came from, smoking was cool. Then he went on to say that he could quit anytime, whenever he figured it was no longer cool, and that even if he got Cancer, big deal. (Did he figure he could take a few Tylenol and the cancer would go away like a bad headache)

Maybe we are sugar coating reality for students. Maybe students should see the effects of cancer more clearly and graphically. I know those gross posters with the kids with rotten teeth and exposed stomachs do nothing to stop teen smoking. I also know that the government’s latest attempt to curve smoking among teens, the ‘Tobacco Wall’ is nothing more than our tax dollars being wasted yet again. The answer lies in our government actually stopping the sale of tobacco and cigarettes….but that will never happen.

I went on to talk to the teen, and how I never smoked a day in my life, but I have still remained ‘cool’ to myself. His reaction? “You are cool?” Thanks a lot kid.

Out with the DQ Guy

Television commercials always annoyed me, but none have ever gotten on my goat as much as the recent commercials from that DQ moron. A guitar that sounds like a dolphin? Kittens in bubbles? C’mon, that don’t make sense at all. I believe the PR guys at Dairy Queen have discovered their next menu sensation, MJ Brownies. How else could they have come up with such silly ads? .

As much as I hate Mr. McDonald, with his giant clown shoes and fake smile, I would take an hour listening to his McDonald’s banter over five minutes with Mr. Good isn’t good enough To get back to my plea. If any of you bloggers are like me, fed up with the nonsense of those stupid commercials, give me a ‘Hell Yeah’ and get in line, it’s “Clobbering Time”

Letting go of the seat

I have a nine year old son. Well, actually,  his mother and I share him with a dad who is never in the picture, so I guess that makes him my son. At 40, he became my first child. (I know, late bloomer)

When I got into the picture, he was just two and a half, using a pacifier and traveling in a stroller wherever we went. Those were the easy days, when we were the teachers and we taught him important things like how to use the bathroom on his own (When we noticed that he would simply stand in front of the toilet and let it go, over the wall and shower curtain, I had to give him some pointers on how to control where the pee went. He was grossed out when I told him that he actually had to hold the thing on, and aim it towards the toilet), how to flush the toilet, how to brush his teeth, and how to wash his hands. Important stuff that he would use for the rest of his life.

I was also there to teach him how to ride his bike. He hated training wheels, and would not ride the bike with them on it. He said that they were for babies, and he certainly was not a baby. (Growing up too fast, he is!) I remember encouraging him to sit on his little Spider Man bike, go to the hill in the front yard and let gravity take its course. He had no part of this, instead, he got me to hold the seat and he paddle the bike like a bat out of hell.

This worked great until I realized that his little legs could paddle faster than my old legs could run. We both ended up falling, him on top of me. A few more times and eventually, I let go of the seat and away he went, until I was dumb enough to tell him that he was on his own. With this, he would crash at the bottom of the hill, and say the same thing all the time: “Okay Dad, but this time, don’t let go of the seat”.  My response was always the same. “I will hold the seat until you can do it on your own”.

Eventually I did let go, and he did make it to the bottom of the hill, and then to the bottom of the driveway, and then to the end of the street, and so on.  He was so proud to learn how to ride the bike.

I was there for many other first occasions as well. I helped pull his first tooth, taught him to use the lawn mower, how to use the electric drill and other power tools, etc.

I worked with him to learn to read (I can’t figure out what the teachers are doing in school, because for some reason, they don’t feel that spelling and phonics is an important skill, I was hooked on phonics as a child), and when I get a chance, I teach him computer skills. I love doing those things with him.

He just began grade four, and now he says that he doesn’t need any more help. Apparently, he already knows it all.  In soccer practice, he wonders why he has coaches, because again, he figures that he knows it all. I must have done some job in the last seven years, because at only nine years of age, he knows everything.

But I am not ready to let go of the seat yet. He still needs to learn to drive a car, I need to have the ‘Talk’ with him about sex and girls and life (I remember my dad having the talk with me. “You know everything you need to know about girls”  my dad asked. “They told us that in school, dad” I replied. “Thank Heavens” he said.)  and the most important thing, he needs to learn to be a dad. I want to be there for that.

Until that day, I am still holding on to the seat.

Rear ended by a drunk on a pedal bike

On Saturday, some drunk carrying his empties to a convenience store rear ended my Corolla. At the time, it seemed kind of funny, as he collided solidly into our back bumper while we were stopped at a light. His bicycle stopped on impact, and he virtually flew over our trunk lid, and onto the pavement. He muttered something under his breath (which smelled like cheap whiskey) while he worked to pick up the bottles that were not smashed across the pavement.

While this incident made us laugh at the time, it brings up an issue I have had for quite some time. If automobile drivers have to have driver’s licenses and insurance, and have to buckle up and have road tests, etc, why don’t the people who drive bicycles require similar safety precautions?

On more than one occasion, I have seen people too drunk to walk ride their bikes on city streets and highways, endangering their lives every time they sit on their seats. I have seen bicyclists ride on highways, at speeds too slow to drive behind, and have heard those people voice their concerns that automobile drivers should learn to share the road with them, and not pass them on highways.  I say that if cyclists want to be treated the same as drivers, they should be forced to have licenses and insurance.

And impaired should be impaired, no matter what sort of vehicle you drive. Who fixes the scratches on the side of my car when the cyclist is too drunk to see a large green sedan stopped at a set of lights? Nuff said

CSI NY, come up with your own endings please, or you will end up on the killing floor

I just began reading the Jack Reacher series of books, by Lee Child.  I decided to begin at the beginning, ( good idea) the first book in the series, which is ‘The Killing Floor’

This was a very exciting book from cover to cover, with twists and turns throughout (how’s that for alliteration?) and finally, when I got to the end of the book, I decided to take a break and watch TV.

This was two weeks ago, and an episode of CSI NY was on the tube. I usually find those CSI shows to resemble science fiction, as they discover clues and use techniques that are foreign to any law enforcement agency. For example, they have the results of DNA tests in minutes, while I have been told this process can take up quite some time. Anyway, back to what pissed me off on this particular occasion.

The episode I watched was the one about counterfeiting, and the offenders were using five dollar bills and a few household chemicals to wash the printing off the small bills, and print them with the faces of $100 bills. As I watched, I quickly became annoyed, because this was exactly the same plot (except the book was more believable) as the plot in Lee Child’s 1998 novel “The Killing Floor”.

Going back to the book was like some idiot telling you the end of the movie, as the final plot twist of the book was the same as the TV show. This just goes to show how creative TV series writers are. Do I hear ‘Lawsuit’ anywhere?

Never wear a moose on your head

Moose hunting is a very popular sport here on the island. Not only is it entertaining for those who love to hunt, (Not something I enjoy) but hunting moose provides for a winter’s food. As First Nations Newfoundlanders, we are raised to never waste anything, and I guess that is why my family choose to enjoy EVERY part of the moose. A particular fondness for the moose head is the reason for this story.

Back a few years ago, my uncle Tom (not his real name) applied for his moose license. He had always wanted to hunt, and bring home the year’s meat to his family, but being clumsy and not always a guy to make the best choices, his dad never encouraged him to use a gun. Every day I seen Tom walk to the mailbox in hopes that his license was there, and every day I seen him walk home depressed when it was not. Finally, one Friday, Tom got his license. We could hear him hollering all the way down the road, through the small community in which we lived.

On Monday morning, myself, my dad, and my two uncles, (one of the uncles being Tom) got ready to go hunting. We packed a good lunch and loaded our gear on the back of our quads and set off. After driving over 30 miles, we came to a lookout that overlooked a large marsh. From this point, you could see for miles, and if there was a moose anywhere, you would be sure to spot him.

Although we warned everyone to be quiet, Tom howled when he seen a moose. He ran over to the nearest tree and aimed his gun. A loud roar came from his firearm as his aim was perfect. We were surprised that he actually hit anything, but he did, as the massive animal fell to the ground. Tom ran down across the large marsh, with his gear on his back, yelling for us to let him do all the work. We looked at each other and laughed. The other guys continued scanning the marsh in search of another moose, and after a few hours, my uncle spotted a large bull moose approaching from behind the trees. He took aim, and shot the giant moose right between the two eyes. We all walked to the site where the moose should have been lying, only to witness what was the biggest scare and surprise ever. There it was, a large moose head (without a body), and right next to the head of the bull moose was Tom, lying on his back unconscious. We were horrified to discover that my uncle did not kill a moose, but rather, he shot the head of the moose that Tom was carrying out oh his shoulders.

My uncle thought that he had killed poor Uncle Tom, but luckily he did not; Tom got such a fright from having the moose head he was carrying on his shoulders shot, he passed out. Poor Uncle Tom will never live this hunting incident down.

When we got home, my dad took the moose head, and the other guys shared up the remaining parts of the moose; and Tom, he probably had to change his underwear!

Pine Beer and Bikers from Michigan

a few years ago, my friends and I found out what Americans were made of. This story began in my basement, and with our home made beer recipe. This was the summer that the beer companies all went on strike, therefore, no beer on the island except some Old Milwaukee crap imported from the states, not the strong, hardy beer we Newfoundlanders are used to drinking.

On this particular weekend, we decided to make our own beer. All the stores were closed, and we needed a brewing bucket. My friend said that his mom worked at a local school, and she should have plenty of plastic 5 gallon buckets lying around. When he showed up at the house, he had a white plastic bucket under his arm. The bucket’s label read “5 Gallons of Pine Sol.”

Before we had a chance to ask him if he had cleaned the bucket, the guys began the beer making process. I later asked him about it, and he replied, “How much cleaner can you be than Pine Sol?” Hey, we were thirsty for some beer, so what is the worst than can happen? It is funny how that answer to that question always comes back to haunt you.

Anyway, we mixed all the ingredients in the bucket, which smelled like Pine Sol. The boys noticed the strong smell, but guessed that the alcohol would probably dissolve any odors anyway. When all the ingredients were mixed, we sealed the bucket, being sure to cut a small hole in the cover of the bucket, and attaching a balloon to the hole. This allows air to circulate but not leave the bucket.

The weekend of the Shallaroo was just two weeks away, giving us time to bottle the beer and allowing it to ferment just right. (The Shallaroo was a local music festival celebrated in the Codroy Valley area of the province. The festival featured many local entertainers and a few from the mainland.) On Friday evening, the guys came up to the house, and together with the big plastic bucket of beer and about 6 dozen empty beer bottles that we painstakingly washed out, we began bottling our beer. One of the boys could not resist a drink of the warm ale, and with that, he almost threw up. “Tastes like pine air fresheners, the kind I have hanging from my rear view mirror in the truck” He said.

We began to worry. Here it was, just two weeks before the festival, and our beer tastes like pine air freshener. Like the brave Newfies we were, we said the hell with it, kept bottling the stuff, and stored the bottled ale in the refrigerator. (These were the days prior to my meeting my fiance, and beer was a staple in my fridge on numerous occasions.) One of the guys said “If we are ever out of beer, we will always have this stuff to drink”

We had a few parties at the house afterwards, but we always managed to stay clear of that beer, choosing instead to drink Whiskey or rum. One of my friends, who was either braver than us, or dumber, chose to drink the Pine beer we made. In no time at all, he was caught holding his stomach, crying out that he seen a bear under my step, only to find that it was just a garbage bag. He was hallucinating seeing wild animals that turned out to be household items. We blamed the beer.

On the day before the festival, the guys came to the house with their trucks, and loaded the alcohol we bought into large coolers and of course, the pine beer; anxious to get the weekend started. When we got to the Codroy Valley festival fields, we found a great site and began unpacking our gear. When our tents were set up, we opened our coolers, and carefully avoiding the horrible pine beer, we started drinking.

Just then, a gang of bikers came up along the road to the field where the festival was being held. One of them came over, saying that he was from Michigan. He bragged about all the Canadian beer they had. One of the guys informed us that the strike was over, and liquor stores began stocking our fine ale once again. Under their arms they carried each a six pack of beer. One of the bikers asked whether they could store their beer in our coolers, because they didn’t enjoy the thought of drinking warm beer on such a hot day. We reluctantly agreed to their offer.

Well, we didn’t actually agree to their offer, instead, we had our own agenda. My friend  had the idea that we store their beer, but we give them our beer, the Pine beer. “How will they know the difference?” he asked. “They probably never drank LaBatts beer anyway, maybe they will think it does taste like Pine Sol.”

As the night went on, the music played loud, and the entire field was filled with partyers, drinking and whooping it up loudly. Around 2 am, we could hear our biker friends in the site next to us, they were carrying on like they were insane. Several of them were heard in the woods vomiting loudly, but they kept drinking anyway.

The next morning, we were greeted by four very big guys, dressed completely in leather, with skulls and crossbones on the backs of their jackets. The biggest guy was as green as a cabbage, and with that, he said “We have to hand it to you Newfies. We noticed you guys drinking all night, we only drank about six beer each, and yet, you guys are perfectly healthy this morning, and we are running around like we drank poison.”

“We learned a valuable lesson today” said one of the bikers. “Your beer tastes nothing like our beer, but it leaves a fresh taste in your mouth and it kicks like a bull”, “We plan on buying more to bring to our friends in the states” they said.

We never told them that they drank beer brewed in plastic Pine Sol buckets. They probably did drink poison.