Help! My Mouth Just Turned Black

A few years ago, I had problems with acid indigestion. Everything I ate stayed on my stomach. My solution? I tried Pepto-Bismal tablets. The instructions say to chew them, but I didn’t bother to read the instructions, I took two and let them melt in my mouth while I slept.

The next morning I was in complete shock when my tongue, my teeth, and the inside of my mouth was completely black. I rinsed, I brushed, I did everything before visiting my local pharmacist. He laughed when I told him about my problem because he had already guessed what the problem was.

“Did you, by any chance, take Pepto-Bismal last night?” he asked. I wondered how he knew, until he went further to explain that when swallowed, Pepto-Bismal coats your stomach. He said that coating is of a shade of black, quite close to the color of my lips and tongue at the time. I then remembered the tablets I took last night.

A simple solution of rinsing with baking soda, and a good lesson learned. I am happy to say that my mouth went back to the red/pink color that it was supposed to be. Whew…at first I thought I had some sort of incurable disease…

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Don’t steal apples and watch out for the train

It happened while we were out camping at a popular fishing spot. I was twelve years old, and my family decided to go camping for the weekend. My dad decided that he was fed up with the neighbors crap, and that we should get away, so we headed for Codroy Pond, a beautiful spot on the west coast of the island. We also brought along my friend Ricky.

When we got to our destination, we were surprised to find that half the community had the same idea we had, and we ended up camping next to our neighbors that dad had left home to avoid.  We set up camp and in no time, Ricky and I began to explore the surrounding areas of the camp site.

While we were walking, we came across a railway track. Back then, the Canadian National Railway was still active, so it was nothing out of the ordinary to see a train buzz by at any given time.  We followed the tracks until we came to a little farmhouse surrounded by the ripest apple trees we ever seen.

Being twelve years old, I got hungry fast, and with the sight of delicious red ripe apples hanging from branches as far as the eye could see, it was inevitable that eventually, we would be in the trees, eating away. Well at least that was our plan.

The biggest apples were in the highest limbs (isn’t that always the case?) so me and Ricky climbed as high into the apple tree as we could, but not before the ass of my pants got tangled in a pointed limb. I paid no attention to the tangle as I managed to grab the biggest apple in the tree and toss it to Ricky, who was still trying to get up the tree (he wasn’t the best tree climber for sure, but I was!).

When I got my hands on yet another apple, this one slightly smaller than the last, we heard someone yelling and cussing loudly, from a distance.  I attempted to get down from the tree, forgetting about the limb that was tangled around the ass of my pants, and finding that I couldn’t move. As much as I twisted, I could not get free, so I stuffed whatever apples I could find into the pockets of my jeans, grabbed the limb, and began pulling in an effort to break free. Just then, the old farmer pulled out what looked like a shotgun, and began firing towards us.

I was terrified, and Ricky, like the trusted friend he was, took off and left me for dead. By the time the old farmer had got close to the tree, he aimed the gun up the tree, towards my ass, and shot at me. I thought this was it. The end of my apple stealing days. The end of my everything. Then I felt it. At first, it was painful, and then it went numb. And then the branch broke and I landed right on the nutcase with the shotgun. As sore as my ass was, I ran like hell for the railway tracks. He continued shooting at me, mainly at my aching ass, with what I later discovered was a gun filled with coarse salt.

I passed Ricky, my trusty ex friend who left me to deal with the nut case with the salt gun, and continued running until I reached the campsite where my parents were getting supper ready. When I arrived, mom and dad were so worried, and not until I managed to remove my hole ridden pants did I discover that the salt did not penetrate the seat of my pants, but they left large welts on my sore cheeks.

Ricky arrived later, and stuttered that I I I p p p p p asssed him l l l l like a f f f f reight train out of control.

I learned a valuable lesson that day. I learned that if you ever feel like stealing apples from a strangers tree, you should wear thick pants. I also learned that stealing is wrong, and if I want apples, I should ask mom and dad to buy them for me. Ricky learned that I could run faster than him when some nut case is shooting salt towards my ass. This was a day for lessons.

Red Solo Cup Stories

With the recent popularity of Toby Keith’s annoying hit song “Red Solo Cup”, I am inviting bloggers to share their Red Solo Cup stories.

Here is mine.

A few years back, my brother in law and I attended The Blueberry Festival, which is a  local music festival here on the west coast of the island. The festival features local entertainers, and sometimes even a popular act from the east coast.

This particular year the festival decided that in addition to selling beer, they would be selling mixed drinks as well; and we were quick to get in line for the mixed drinks. The both of us had three alcohol tickets, which cost a dollar a piece. The line was long and we were thirsty, and just before I got to the table where the bartender was, he decided to take a break. At this point, the bartender called over his friend to take over selling booze.

The guy looked like he was out of his element, and we were correct. When I asked for a Crown and Seven, he didn’t know what it was. I explained that it was seven up mixed with Crown Royal Whiskey. At that point, the guy filled one Red Solo Cup with Whiskey, and one Red Solo Cup with Seven Up.  My brother in law ordered the same drink, and in no time, we were loaded. Apparently, a lot of people were loaded, because this guy sold most people in the line the same drink.

When the rest of our gang met up with us, they wondered how we got hammered with just one drink, and when we explained what happened, they all ran to the alcohol table in hopes of buying the same drink, but by then the original bartender was back, and he knew how to properly mix drinks. He also mentioned that he could no longer mix Crown and Seven, because he had ran out of Crown Royal. Whatta Time! We loved Red Solo Cups that evening, we hated them in the morning…Oh my head!!!!!!

Conversations next to the urinal

What a way to begin my 2012 blog, with a post about a conversation next to a urinal! Leave it to me I guess.

Anyway, Last night, I provided the music for the New Years Ball at the Viking Lounge. In our town, there are several bars, and each of them had a New Years Ball. The bars vary from one end of the spectrum to the other, the top being the Royal Canadian Legion, where the ‘upper class Newfies’ tend to gather, while the Brown Derby lies at the other end, where those who the community regards as ‘The other crowd’ like to occupy space. The Viking falls in between those two areas, somewhere in the middle. Mostly French-Aboriginal in heritage, those people know how to have a good time, even if it means the occasional fist fight in the back room, or even worst,  in the bathroom (or restroom  or lavatory, or simply the place where the toilet exists).

The crowd were on their feet most of the night, dancing shoulder to shoulder to everything from Lady Gaga to Great Big Sea, and everything (Except Rap, as playing one  of those songs would result in one less DJ in the area) in between. In  the remote moments when I am fortunate to spin a song long enough to make a trip to the bathroom, I really have to rush, and that’s where this story takes place. Long introduction, but hey, who is writing this anyway?

I was always taught that when standing at the urinal (or trough in this case), use the ‘Look ahead, pee and shut up’ routine that my dad taught me at an early age. So here I was, standing doing my duty (peeing) and this guy comes flying into the bathroom, the victim of some guy’s fist, and lands next to me, only I am the one  standing and peeing, and he is the one with his head next to the trough. Just then and there, he starts this conversation  about how I am doing a great job with the tunes, but he had some  suggestions. (They all have suggestions, but let them sit in front of a crowd of anxious party animals whose ages range from 18 to 80, and try to please everyone)

Then he starts talking about life in general, and how most women  don’t pay attention to him. I can’t imagine why, as he is an individual who chooses to talk about personal matters while lying on a floor of a bar, next to a converted cattle trough turned  into an urinal. He asks me for tips  in improving his woman  savy. (his words, not mine). By this time, I am finished doing  what I was doing, and anxious to get back to my equipment (no, not that equipment, my DJ  equipment) and put on the next song. I left my patient on the floor and hurry back to the booth where I can concentrate on what to play next, and not how to help desperate woman deprived guys who choose to lie on the floor next to a urinal and ask for help.

Ah Hell, I couldn’t do that to the guy,  so I went back, to find him still lying next  to the urinal, and told him that if he really wanted a girl, the first step is to get up out of the pee stained floor, clean up a little (or a lot) and ask her for a dance.

The night went great for me, not so great for my patient, as he must have come upon some  sort of revelation while lying in pee, and got the guts to go up and ask some very broad shouldered chick (whose even broader shouldered boyfriend was sitting next to her) for a dance. This resulted in the broad shouldered boyfriend kicking my patient’s ass out the door, over the step, and onto the parking lot. Oh well, guess sometimes a person should never give advice, especially while peeing.

Happy New Year to my fellow (and female) bloggers, and happy blogging in 2012

Eat your crusts

When I was a kid, my mom would get angry if we didn’t eat the crust from our bread. She used to tell us that kids in Africa were starving, and here we were throwing our crusts away. Not to be selfish, my brother and I gathered all the crusts we had not eaten, packed them in a box, and addressed it to Africa. The box came back a few weeks later, due to the wrong address. We felt terrible for all the starving kids we could have helped.

Killercat

When I first got him, he was tiny enough to fit into the palm of my hand. He went by the name Midnight, but that name later changed to Killercat. Many people asked why this was.

Killercat was the cutest little thing. Cold black with eerie green eyes made this the perfect Halloween cat, and given the fact that he was born on October 31 only helped his extra spooky image.

Killercat was once a gentle cutie of a kitten, getting into trouble as most kittens do. He had a partner in crime, Rascal, who was like a brother to him, despite the fact that they came from different litters. I had originally intended on getting only one kitten, but Killercat cried out all night, in search of his mother, whom he was taken away from at too soon a time. In order to sleep, I decided to get another kitten. The two of them were so cute together, at night they would cuddle and Killer would ensure that Rascal was cleaned each day. Killer even took care to see that Rascal used the litter box properly.

As cute as Killercat was, he also had a dark side, and that is where the name Killercat originated. At night, while I slept, Killer would go into the kitchen, and if there were any steak knives laying around, he would carry them into my bed and lay them next to my neck. I know, you are thinking you seen this in some horror movie, but I assure you, I am not making this up. At Christmas time, he would remove glass Christmas ornaments from the tree and place them under my pillow. I think he was secretly trying to kill me.

I later renamed Midnight the name Killercat, and in fact, he responded much better to the new name.

A few years later, and Killercat would suffer a great loss. Rascal always had a difficult time with his water. He would often require medication to help him urinate, and eventually he would suffer from a cat disease linked to his kidneys. Two costly surgeries later and he still suffered, so I had to do the humane (and most difficult thing I ever had to do) and get the vet to put him to sleep. I know we men should be tough and not let things get to us, but I admit that I cried when I had to do this.

With that, Killer changed. No longer did I have the cute little black cat who only exhibited evil while I slept. Instead, I had an animal who suffered the loss of his best friend, and who took out frustrations on my home, the casings around the doors, my furniture, my bed, and of course, me; and anyone who crossed him.

The cat had his good points, as anytime I didn’t feel well, he was right there by my side, almost guarding me. He seemed to know whenever I wasn’t feeling well, and he would ensure that he was next to me, purring away loudly, trying to cheer me up. He also seen that no dogs invaded the household. When we brought a new puppy into the house, Killercat was not long teaching the puppy his house rules.

Killercat would continue this behavior until I brought another cat into the home. He never really accepted the new kitten, but he was less unpredictable. Eventually, he returned to his sometimes sweet self. If you ask anyone except my two sisters, Killercat was the sweetest cat ever, but for some reason, he totally disliked my sisters. On one occasion, while they were petting him, he locked his four paws around my sister’s arm, digging his claws deep into her flesh. I had to pry him from her arm.

Last summer, he began crying out at night, obviously in pain. I spent the night lying next to him in his little bed, petting him to help ease the pain. In the morning, it was a painful trip to the vet to discover the he too was beyond any help. Killercat was suffering from a liver disease, and I had to get him put to sleep.

I will always miss the ole guy, as he was eleven when he passed on. Nobody can say this cat was boring, as he kept me on my feet, except for the times in which he plotted to kill me.

Boobs

Despite getting your attention with the title of this weeks blog, this blurb has nothing to do with any part of the female anatomy, but rather, it is a list of funny (embarrassing) things that I have done in the past that I can sit and laugh at today.

Why choose to write a list of embarrassing things that have happened to me you ask? Well, being a ‘Newfie’, we have the inborn trait of being able to laugh at ourselves. Here goes…

1.  I was at a local department store once, and upon choosing a few pairs of jeans, I went to the change room to try them on. I tried them on and found that I needed a bigger pair, so I left the change room to get one, only to find that I forgot to put my pants back on first. I quickly discovered that I was walking around the store in my boxers when the lady in the Men’s wear department stood and stared at me in shock. (What is wrong with some people? Didn’t she know that is rude to stare at your customers?)

2. Still with the underwear topic, one day my mom phoned me. She said that she was tired of my dad cutting up good jeans to make shorts to wear on hot days. Mom asked if I could go down town and look for a few pairs of suitable shorts for my dad to wear.

With this, I went to the nearest Wool-co store (it used to be Wool-co, then Woolworth, and then eventually it changed to Wall-Mart) where I found the neatest shorts in the store. Three pairs for five dollars, plaid in color (every dad loves plaid, don’t they?) and made from a nice light material. I liked the boxer shorts so much, I bought a few pairs for myself as well.

My dad loved them; he wore them everywhere, including to the grocery store, to the beach, around the house, on camping trips, hell, he even wanted to wear them to church. I must admit, I wore mine almost as often.

The strange thing about people is that they choose to stare at a person for the weirdest reasons. Whenever I went to town, people stared at my shorts. I used to tell them that they could buy shorts like this at Wool-co for under ten dollars, but none of them ran out to buy them.

One day, while my brother was visiting, he gazed at my dad and me, and asked why we were wearing underwear around the house. I quickly informed him that those ultra comfortable shorts were not underwear, but simply the most comfortable outside shorts I ever had. I even had a few pairs purchased for my brother, which I planned on giving him for Christmas next year. Being an employee at Wool-co, he quickly informed me that a staff member mistakenly put the boxers out on the sports rack where many of the shorts were being displayed, rather than in the underwear department where they should have been placed. Boy, our faces were some red when we realized that we were wearing underwear in public.

3 . I think I could tell funny clothing stories all day. Back a few years ago, button fly jeans were the rage. (At least they were the rage here in Newfoundland at the time. They were probably the rage twenty years earlier in the rest of the world, but being on an island, we are cut off from technology, fashion, and other things of the such)

I had visited a local clothing store and found the perfect pair of jeans. I wanted those jeans. Those jeans only came in one size, a 30 waist, while my waist was a 34 (this was a few years ago, as a 34 waist would come up somewhere around my knees right now), but I decided to try them anyway. I went into the tiny change room, slipped out of my jeans, and put those cool button fly jeans on. When I got the last button fastened, I realized that the jeans were too small (DUH), and because I had held my breath to get them on, exhaling was not the best decision. I almost choked. Right away, I began to panic. I could not get the buttons undone. I was in the tiny dressing room about fifteen minutes when I had no choice but call out to the lady in the men’s department. “Could you please help me” I asked. A little old lady in her late fifties came to the door of the dressing room. “What is wrong, do you need another pair” she asked. “No, I can’t get those off, could you help me take my pants off” I said. (I was in too much discomfort to think how this must have sounded)

Here she was, door wide open in the dressing room in a crowded store, lady down on her knees in front of my crotch, trying to undress me. Many of the customers stared over, but it didn’t matter, I had to get those jeans off, and soon. When she couldn’t do anything with the tight jeans, she called another lady over, and the two of them pushed on my waist, struggling to unbutton my jeans. Then the department head came over, and she helped as well. You can imagine how this must have appeared when the store manager, an older gentlemen who had obviously been working at the store far too long, came over and witnessed a young man in his early 20’s, standing there while three of his staff members knelt in front of his crotch, almost to the point of gnawing on the jeans to take them off. The manager came over, and yelled loudly at the workers. “What in the Hell are you guys doing to this young man?” He asked. “From here, it looks like you guys are performing some sort of lucid act on one of my customers, for the love of God, get to your feet and explain yourselves!” He said.

While the workers stammered and stuttered to explain what they had been doing, I bent forward, and all of a sudden, ‘Sproing!!” one of the top buttons flew off the jeans, allowing me to exit the tight denim pants that held me captive for the past hour. I was weak from embarrassment when all of a sudden, all involved started laughing loudly at the incident. I quickly closed the door, put my old jeans on, and exited the store. It has been thirty years since that day, and I faithfully avoid going back to the store.

4. One Sunday morning, I had a bit of a cold, and rather than stay home, I decided to go to church. Being raised Roman Catholic, Mom always encouraged us to go to church, so in this case, I was just being dutiful. Anyway, I sat in the pew, and in front of me was the wife of the richest guy in town. The lady wore a fine mink coat that must have cost a fortune. Just as mass began, I sneezed, and you guessed it, I totally missed my tissue and got her coat. Here I was with my little tissue, trying to wipe her coat without her knowledge, totally afraid of the consequences of her finding out that I sneezed on her fine fur coat. The guy behind me was in stitches as every time I reached out with my tissue, she leaned ahead or leaned to the side. Eventually, I just gave up and left the church.

5. While on the church topic, my sister and I went to church once, and upon arriving late, we put the kneelers down and knelt down, only to discover that my sister put the kneeler down on an old lady’s foot. Being in church, you dare not screech, so she let out a helpless whine. Instead of getting up and apologizing, I sat up quickly, only to discover that I sat on this her husband’s hat. Both myself and my sister burst into laughter, while the old guy shook his fist at us for ruining his hat and the old lady sat holding onto her toes. We quickly exited the church.

5. Still on the church topic….One morning, on the way to church, my brother, who lives in town, asked me for a ride. It was a cold day, so I wore my favorite stocking hat. When I pulled into his driveway, I opened my window to alert my brother that I was waiting for him, when suddenly, my hat blew off. Without thinking, I got out of the car and ran for my hat, forgetting to put the car into park first. When I finally got to my hat, I noticed my car heading for his garage doors, and with just an  inch or two before my car crashed into the garage, I managed to apply the brake and stop the car. My brother came out, furious, yelling “You almost drove through my house!” “What were you thinking?” My reply? “Well, at least I got my hat”. Nothing more was said until we reached the church. We took seats in the middle row of the church, and despite trying to be quiet, I looked over to find my brother down on all fours, cracking up with laughter, and repeating over and over “At least I got my hat”. We laughed so much that eventually the entire church laughed, without even knowing what they were laughing about. The minister, who was an older guy without much patience yelled for everyone to come to order and pray. We left quietly and quickly.

6. Here in Newfoundland, we use a daylight savings time schedule and our fall days are very short. Our autumn mornings are as dark as night, and we only see daylight around 9 or so. I had been working at the local Radio Shack store, and I had to be to work for 8:00 every morning. This was a Sunday ( I don’t have much luck with Sundays for some reason) and I was particularly tired, so after supper, I chose to have a small nap. I awoke later that evening, and glancing at the clock, I noticed that it was 8:00. I sprang to my feet, showered, dressed, and took off down the road to go to work. When I got to work, I was surprised to find the streets abandoned and nobody waiting at the door outside the store. I waited at the door for the boss to arrive, and after an hour, I decided to call him. When he answered, he laughed and told me that it was now 10:00 p.m. on a Sunday evening.

There you have it, I have bared my soul of some funny things that I have experienced and lived to talk about.

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…~~~

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.