Todd Ternovan believed in keeping things simple: Marrying his college sweetheart, studying Early Childhood Education at Ryerson University, spending his professional life as a daycare teacher. It was a tidy plan. Except for one thing: Man plans and the gods laugh. To fund his life and education in Toronto, Todd worked a part-time job—as a corrections officer at the infamous Don Jail. Although he spent a few years working with kids, Todd’s experience in corrections propelled him into a 30-year career with the Ontario Provincial Police. Small-town policing isn’t just rescuing cats from trees and performing wellness checks. The concession roads and rural routes of southwestern Ontario are home to some incredibly kind, resilient people, and scene to some strange, tragic and heinous events. Todd dealt with them all, from the naked machete-wielding man who claimed to be Jesus Christ, to armed American fugitives, decades-old sexual assaults, harrowing traffic accidents, and even a year spent “Uncle Charlie” (undercover) investigating drug traffickers. The title derives from a motorcycle gang member who demonstrated his disdain for police by pulling a “wheelie” on his motorcycle following a traffic stop. The biker was charged with stunt driving. In his defense in court, the biker said, in a thick French accent: “It was not possible for me to a pull a ‘wheelie.’ I had a full gas of tank!” “Gas of Tank” embodies, for Todd, all the surreal, upside-down, unbelievable, description-defying experiences police face daily.
WARNING: Slight nudity and reams of coarse language.Who would be dishonest enough to summarize this book? The author, I guess.It's Wikileaks of satire and outrage that only our wet diaper of a culture could provoke.It's the white glove of sarcasm striking the huge, rubbery beachball face of this ignoble world.It's Thanksgiving, 1959, with the Bush Family. It's "Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday." It's the pope and Dick Cheney and Canadian Judas Prudence.It's man's inhumanity to man...
Now, after 34 years, here is the book the Vatican banned in 88 countries, the FBI tried to suppress, and every major media outlet in the English speaking world told you did not exist. Available in this limited, unauthorized edition are the stories of Homunculus. These are the ravings of a desert-maddened wanderer grown lunatic on locusts and honey, crazed by these voices that refused to be silenced. Written in the margins of international telephone directories, take-out menus, matchbooks and business cards, Homunculus has been meticulously reconstructed, its hidden codes broken and laid bare. Shield the elderly and the infirm, protect the innocent and nubile.
I have struggled with my weight my entire adult life. Dwelling among cubicles for two decades, my sedentary existence saw my weight climb to nearly 300 lbs. The number is irrelevant, but the discomfort, desperation, and despair I lived with were all very real. Fast forward to the COVID-19 global pandemic, I came to a crossroads where I realized I could choose which “95” I wanted to be—eat, drink, and laze my way to 395 lbs., or battle the isolation and anxiety by getting on my bike and pedaling toward for 195 lbs. I chose the latter. Since May 2020, I have logged more than 65,000 kilometers on my bike. I am not a slick, spandexed cyclist practicing his art in pelotons. I am a lone, obsessed hobbyist.
Nine thousand years ago, Mamalujo was a Chronicler living and working at Kinoomaagewaapkong, “the rocks that teach,” in what modern maps identify as Woodview, Ontario. He was the first technical writer. A poor hunter, afraid of the dark, born with twelve toes, Mamalujo was known as mayagenim, “quarefella,” “weirdo.” When the odoodem’s chieftain demanded that Mamalujo depict him on the Teaching Rock, an offense against the gods, Mamalujo produced a work of mocking satire. The chieftain fired Mamalujo as Chronicler, banishing him from the odoodem—a veritable death sentence. Mamalujo’s friend, the medicine man, was distraught. The woman Mamalujo secretly loved, Gracealujo (and who secretly loved him) was heartbroken. What ensued, however, as Mamalujo wandered out beyond the Anishinaabe hunting grounds, was a process of survival, discovery, and resurrection.
After receiving his latest rejection letter from a fiction magazine, aspiring writer Hugh Longford purchases The BlockBuster plot-generation software, which analyzes fiction and suggests ways to "punch up" storylines. Soon, Hugh consults The BlockBuster about how to handle real-life problems, including a miserable co-worker who makes his job unbearable, and a "ball-busting" history exam threatening to derail his university career. Meanwhile, the mother of his girlfriend suffers a catastrophic nervous breakdown, suggesting she might be capable of violence.
This is the first major history of the Leicestershire Regiment in the Great war to be published since the 1930s. Weaving personal recollections with official accounts, it brings the character of the four battalions raised in Leicestershire vividly to life. There are over 200 photographs, many from private collections, maps and several appendices.
Among the citizens of these stories you will find: The best man, secretly against his best buddy’s marriage, finds himself having to actually talk the panicking groom into going through with the ceremony. After Larry Dun’s name appears in the obituary section of the local newspaper, he goes to a bar to contemplate life as a ghost, and decide what second chances are about. Legendary rock ’n’ roller, Wolf Kearney, takes the stage and faces a tumultuous audience—a mirror reflection of his thirty years in the business—a crowd lost in the past?—finding himself more confined within the spotlight, than exalted by it. As a young man drives home one night following band practice, his car is nearly struck by something falling from a bridge overhead: an ordinary soda can-filled with ominous, though potentially profitable contents. Adam—living in Dublin, Ireland—one night sees a statue of Jesus Christ standing upon a pedestal inside a Plexiglas box. And attempts to rescue him. A rock ’n’ roll fan makes a pilgrimage to Bono’s estate in Killiney, County Dublin, where he reflects on art, fandom and hero worship.
I met Pryvett on New Year’s Eve 1999. He was an improbable personage. At first glance, Pryvett resembled a melted snowman, a shapeshifter stuck between two ambitious shapes, but he was, clearly, not to be underestimated. He was drinking beer and tequila and wine coolers and smoking a pipe. He was the friend of friends, and I never really caught the connection Pryvett had to them other than he had once “gamed” with them. As the night wore on and outrage after outrage poured out Pryvett, my wife asked me (as other girls in the room were asking their boyfriends), “Who is that guy?” To which a friend, still choking on his drink, laughing at the freshest mordant bon mot from Pryvett, croaked, “He’s the the love-child of Don Rickles and Andrew ‘Dice’ Clay!”
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