Jun 29

We Got The Grass Cut

At the cabin. Don’t worry, the grass at home is still as long as ever.

He’s so much like Paul.

My brother Larry and I went up last weekend and spent the night. It was good, but it was weird not having Paul there. He is ingrained into every part of that cabin, from the furniture, to the homemade mousetraps, so it was kind of like he was there, but not the same.

It was his favourite place, that I know of. Continue reading

Apr 30

The Fishing Hole – Part 1

Yep, trout season open last weekend, so Scooter and I let it settle down for a week, and then booked it for the woods to enjoy nature at it’s finest. There has been a bunch of beatings down at the creek, but I don’t think anyone is going to mess with us. If you’ve seen Scooter, you’ll know why.

I think there's a good spot to set up camp over here somewhere.

Oh yeah, there it is, and there's no one else around. Sweet!

Yup, this is awesome. Time to relax and enjoy life. A guy can't sit around looking mean ALL the time.

Continue reading

Jan 31

My buddy JP

I was fortunate enough to go for a drive to Ajax today, and experience the wonderment of Costco. We got some snorkel sets and other necessary items for our trip. I’m looking forward to doing some real snorkeling in some crystal clear water, because the last time I tried it it didn’t go so well. I think it was Scooter, Handsome Bastard and I by the gap in Harwood, and we had a chunk of garden hose that we were using as a snorkel. I have to tell you that thin walled hose doesn’t make a good snorkel, because it will collapse if you go down too far. I found this out at about eight feet below the surface, which probably doesn’t seem bad , but when you’ve just expelled a lung full of plastic air and then can’t breathe back in, it seems a little more of a concern to get back up those eight feet. After we realized the limitations of cheap garden hose as diving gear, we continued our venture in to the tackle business. I would just hang around in the shallow part and look for lures that the Americans would lose while the boys would plug the end of the hose every once in a while. I guess they were just making sure that I wasn’t sleeping. We would then sell the lures back to the people on shore for half price, or whatever we could get for them.

While looking around in some tangled roots, I spotted a Mepps snagged in the wood. As I was picking it out of it’s trap, a muskie or something with big teeth, smashed into my mask. I came out of the water like a shot, babbling and sputtering like an idiot, while Scooter and Handsome Bastard laughed at me from the shore. I was done with that fucking hose, and they were all assholes for not taking me seriously.

Wait a minute. I said that was my last time using snorkeling equipment, but that’s a lie. Another time we were at the gap, and I decided that I wanted to see what bottle rockets looked like going off under water. I went in with the mask on, and told them to shoot it off to my left. I then went under, and watched where I had told them to shoot it, when something bounced off of my mask, and exploded. The concussion was intense, and it sucked the mask right on my face and I thought my eyes were going to pop out. I was flailing and gasping for air, and forgot that I could blow out with my nose to relieve the suction. My instincts just told me to not breathe. Luckily I was only in four feet of water, and was able to stand up to prevent myself from drowning, but the ringing stayed in my ears for several days. This was not the last bad experience that I had with gunpowder.

The next “misfire” happened when I was working at Bruce and Rick’s carwash, and I had cut open a bunch of shotgun shells to get the powder out. While I was cleaning out my Rampage, I found some of the primers, and thought I’d put one in the vice, and give it a little tappy tap. WOW, who knew such a tiny thing could make so much noise? I guess being in an enclosed space didn’t help it much, but holy shit! I couldn’t hear anything but a high pitched whistle for hours, and very little for a few days. I have since quit entertaining stupid ideas of inventing new bombs, and have resigned myself to writing about stupid ideas I have previously toyed with. I do this for you, the reader, to help you avoid the mistakes I, or others I know, have made. You’re welcome, and on that note, I’m going to tell you about my lunch.

The box was too small to have sex in, or so I thought.

We went to JP’s Pita Deli at the Liberty St. exit in Bowmanville, Ontario. It is the most fantastic place to get a delicious pita, and have a really good chat with one of the most colourful guys you will ever meet. JP is an Armenian fellow that makes the most delicious food, and does it with a smile on his face. Well, unless those guys that are building his house do something stupid, because they don’t know anything, and are constantly wrecking things on him. Those days, he is like the sad guy that goes to the bar to unload his woes on the bartender. You can’t help but like the guy, and when he is on a rant about something, it’s like poetry. Poetry from an angry Armenian. He uses only fresh ingredients, and makes his falafel mix up daily. He loves to tell you about all of the tricks that the fast food conglomerates use to get you in and shove their filthy poisons down your throat. I’m with him on that one. I also love that he goes to all the local supermarkets to buy his ingredients, instead of getting a wholesaler to deliver it. He is open from 10 AM to 9 or 10 PM, and he works those hours himself, and then does all of the shopping for the store between 9 and 10 AM. I would post his picture, but he doesn’t want to be on the internet where people will see him. I can post a picture of me eating on of his pitas though. My sweet baby took it today.

I was happy. I hadn’t had one in over three weeks.

If you do decide to try out JP’s, tell him Chris sent you from the internet. You definitely won’t be disappointed.

And I was stuck on Joy, that was her name,


Oct 26

Did I ever tell you about the time I killed an elk with a hammer?

(note: Mrs. B advised me not to post this, but for whatever reason, I wanted to anyhow. Sorry if it turns you off. Tomorrow will be better. :))

Yep, it wasn’t pretty, but not one elk has fucked with me since that snowy, fateful night. I think the moose are even staying out of my way now. I wonder if maybe one saw me take out the elk, and warned the rest of the woodland creatures. It was actually one of the worst things I’ve ever had to do as a professional driver, aside from calling the Saskatoon Husky truckstop every night looking for Destiny, the sweetest lot lizard you ever did meet, to tell her that she might want to get checked for gonorrhea.

I was hauling propane that winter, and had to go to somewhere near Tumbler Ridge, BC to a rig that needed filling. When you fill up a rigs propane, you really just fill all of the propane tanks on the shacks for their heat and hot water and the two big tanks that supply the flare stack and other assorted buildings and equipment. It was nighttime when I was finished, the roads were icy and it was snowing pretty hard. I was coming back up to Dawson Creek when a cow elk trotted across the road in front of me, and I thought I missed her, but for whatever reason she decided to turn and slipped on the ice, with her head falling back and clipping the bumper and fender of the truck.

By the time I hit her, I wasn’t going really fast, maybe forty or fifty km/h, but it was enough to drop her right there and bend the bumper into the front tire. I stopped and got out to check the damage, shaking and breathing pretty heavily from the adrenaline, when I heard a wheezing noise from behind the truck. I walked back and saw the hulk laying there in the dark, so I went and bent the bumper back enough to move the truck and back up so I could see her, and to get the truck off the road as much as possible.

It was a horrible sight. I think she was partially paralyzed or something, because she couldn’t get up, but was kicking her forelegs at me when I came near. I went through the truck to try and find something to put her out of her misery, but all I had was a brass hammer.  I was hoping she’d just die on her own by the time I got back, but there was no such luck, so I knew I was was going to have to do something. I grabbed the hammer and walked back to do the job, when the snowplow pulled up. He didn’t have anything either, but he figured that I could run over her and do it quicker than with a hammer. I got in the truck, backed up a bit while he guided me and gave her some fuel. I spun for a bit and slid sideways, so I figured that wasn’t going to work, but I tried anyhow. It just pushed her big old noggin to the side.

I was starting to panic by now, because it seemed cruel to have this animal, who had done nothing to deserve this, other than take a tragic misstep in front of my truck, suffering through, not only getting hit, but having to watch a couple of assholes running around trying to figure out a way to kill her. The cow scene from “Me, Myself and Irene” comes to mind. I just grabbed the hammer and got in behind her to where she couldn’t kick me and started to let her have it. Luckily it was a heavy hammer, and she was probably done in after a couple of shots, but I kept going, just to make sure. I’ve hunted and killed a lot of game in my life, but that was by far the worst feeling I’ve ever had while taking down an animal. I helped the plow guy tie a chain around her, and he dragged her to a turn-around in the road, so she wasn’t a danger to other motorists. I later found out that the plow’s underbody has enough down pressure to lift the truck, so the driver could have easily just put that on her and been done with it.

I felt sick to my stomach and very heartbroken to have to do that, but I felt it to be my duty. I guess that was branded into my psyche from an early age by my dad and step-dad. We’d be hunting and if something got wounded, we would follow it until we had killed it, because it’s inhumane to let any living thing suffer like that. I can remember Dad hitting a skunk near the house one night, and going home to get the .410 to make sure it didn’t go the night flailing around in the ditch. It was just something you did, and if you asked why, you were asked whether you’d like to be shot or injured very badly, but still live for days in horrible pain. I guessed that I wouldn’t like that. The other big rule was that you don’t shoot something that you don’t plan to eat, unless you are protecting yourself or someone else. Makes sense to me, and they are both rules I’ve followed all my life.

I’m sorry if this story upset anyone, that wasn’t my intention, and I left a lot of the humour out for that reason. I can laugh about things like that, because if I didn’t, I’d be a pretty morose bastard all of the time. Another thing that bothered me was that I didn’t have a knife with me that day, because my pack was in the other truck, and a lot of very good meat went to waste. I hate seeing anything die for no good reason, and if I could have got the hind end or even the loins out of it, it wouldn’t have died in vain. I guess the wolves and ravens would have fed on it, so that’s something.

If there’s one thing I learned from Relic on the Beachcombers, it’s always carry an axe,


Go to our FACEBOOK page… or don’t. We don’t really care.

Oct 06

Therapy Thursdays #1


Dear Birdman,

I hear you are an expert when it comes to controlling problem wildlife. I have troubles with raccoons getting into everything year after year and was wondering if you had any advice on how to keep them away?


First off, can’t you come up with a decent name like they do in the professional advice columns? Something like Rabidly Hating Raccoons, or Not Cool With Coons? Whatever. Just because I have no experience at this, doesn’t mean that I’m cheap and don’t deserve to be treated with advice columnist respect.

Now I don’t claim to be an expert in anything, but I do know that you must be a simpleton if you are trying to keep raccoons away. They are fucking delicious. My advice is to get a weapon of some sort and what I do is throw some rotting chicken or other meat out in the garbage and wait for the little bastards to try and open it. That’s when they taste my stout club,(but you can use whatever) right behind the ear. Another way I’ve heard of is to live trap and drown them, but I won’t trade a speedy kill for extra tender meat, especially if I have to look into those big brown eyes as I slowly lower them into the rain barrel. That’s just inhumane. Some of the neighbours get pissed off with the noise, what with the screaming and flailing if they don’t die right away, but I just send over a small pot of this delicious stew and that usually keeps them quiet for a while.

Raccoon Stew

~ 1 raccoon, cleaned, skinned and quartered
~ pepper
~ 4 cups water
~ 2 carrots, diced
~ 1 stalk celery, diced
~ 2 large potatoes, cubed
~ salt

In a large pot, place the meat and cover with water. Bring to a boil and cook for 1 hour.
Remove meat and allow to cool. Discard water.Remove meat from bones and cut into 1” – 2” cubes. Sprinkle with pepper.Add meat back to pot and add water, carrots, celery and potatoes. Season to taste with salt.Bring to a boil, reduce heat and cook until veggies are tender. Adjust seasoning if needed.Serve and enjoy.

Love thy neighbour… if they’re hot,


P.S. Please send all questions to birdman@changethetopic.com. They will all be posted on the following Thursday. If you don’t send any, then I will be forced to invent shit, and you won’t like it.