Dear Mister Ed

When folks talk about the wilds of Brutish Columbya, I always figgered they meant somewheres out in the bush.

Turns out they mean Robinson Street in down town Vancoover. Leastwise when the Olympicks is in town.

I even got a smell of it first hand.

It started when Eva called to say she was full to the gullet tryin’ to get herself on TV and her nerves was shot, so wud I and Unkle Walt kindly come and fetch’er.

Walt was bearly back on his feet from his big attack of the gout, so I says let me do the fetchin’.

First thing Friday I get in Evas blow-up boat with some water and a bit of grub, along with a bunch of maps and a book on how to start the dang thing.

Did I say a boat? More like a beech ball with a cake mixer strapped on the back. Dang thing bounces somethin’ wickid when you hit a wave, and pracktickly goes air born if a big ship has jest went by.

It took an hour short of forever, but I finely got to where the fairy boat leaves to the main land. Not a minnit too soon. More like three hours, seein’ how long I had to wait.

Folks was so keen to leave Vancoover Island they was like lemons lined up to jump off a cliff.

By the time I got down town it was comin’ on dark, but the streets was lit so good I reckoned I cud spot Eva rite off.

Holey Nelly, was I in fer a shock. Robinson Street was plugged with peepul thick as mackrels in a can. More’n you cud shake a stick at and no room to shake it if you had a mind to.

And the racket! Hoopin’ and hollerin’ and honkin’ like the Canucks jest won the World Series.

Findin’ someone five foot nothin’ in that crowd was like lookin’ fer a noodle in a hay stack.

Then I recalled Eva sayin’ to meet ‘er at the Olympical calldron, so I high-taled it down to the water front. Turns out the calldron was’nt a cook-pot at all, but a stack of giant barbacue starters all lit up.

And there was Eva, clutchin’ onto a soggy old sign that says “Safe Places Before Races” and madder’n a hen from waitin’ five hours in the rain fer me to show up.

By the time we was on the fairy boat with a nine-dollar cup of soup in us, she cooled down some.

She’s still all riled at how much got spent on the Olympicks that cud of gone to better use, but she says that’s it fer protestin’.

“Holdin’ a sign is one thing” she says “but smashin’ cars and bustin’ windows dont feed a sole or put a roof on there head.”

From here on, nothin’ short of reel ackshun is good enuff fer her, she says.

I dass’nt even think what that mite mean.

Yer pal,

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