Friday, 24 July 2015


caribana, Scotiabank Caribbean Carnival, moron Editor, toronto,
EDITOR'S NOTE: What the hell is going on here, you ask? Oh, let me tell you ...

Good morning, dear readers. How does this lovely Monday morning find you? And already you're thinking "Why is she talking like that? WTF is wrong with her?" Well I'll tell you what's wrong with her: she's in a voodoo-induced slumber. She's been put under some sort of Caribbean hex and it's all because she wouldn't listen to me. 

Remember how she was whining that she'd have to miss the Scotiabank Caribbean Carnival this year because the doctor ordered her to stay home and keep her injured knee elevated? Well surprise surprise: she didn't listen to him either. By 2 p.m. she was jonesing like a dope fiend, rocking back and forth, chanting "Me missin' de festival, mon!" and soon after that the hectoring began. 
"Maybe we could just go and watch from the car?" 
"Perhaps just a quick spin around the perimeter?" 
And then finally, "Editor! Fetch my Brazilian flag, take me down to the lakeshore and carry me around on your shoulders! RIGHT NOW!" 

EDITOR'S NOTE: Can you imagine trying to find someone in this crowd? 

And to be perfectly honest, after two hours of that I simply couldn't take it anymore. I agreed to get us close enough that we could park up and watch a few floats go by, but the little minx scuttled out the door the second we got within earshot of the mas bands and disappeared into the crowd. When I finally tracked her down she was chugging Wray & Nephew overproof straight from some stranger's bottle and dancing like she'd never heard the words "prescription painkillers." I tried to sneak up on her and trap her in the oversized net I keep on my person at all times (don't judge; you'd do the same thing if you had to spend more than one hour with her) but she spotted me and took off running. RUNNING! On her injured knee. Wray & Nephew will do that to you. 

EDITOR'S NOTE: That's her the moment after she spotted me and before she took off running.

By the time I caught up to her she was snuggling up to some sweaty, gold-speckled senior citizen. "Master!" I shrieked. "Don't touch that filthy perspiring mongrel, I beg of you!"
But again, did she listen? Of course she bloody didn't.
"He's not a mongrel, he's a Caribbean witch doctor!" she retorted. "One kiss from him and my knee will be healed!"
"One kiss from him and you'll need a year's worth of tetanus shots!" I said, but as I may have mentioned, she never listens to me. And now here she is, passed out on the couch, covered with cheap gold sparkles and muttering deliriously, something about "morons" and "stabbing" and "why couldn't it have been him?" Complete gibberish. And all because she wouldn't listen to me. She NEVER listens to me. She ... aaaaack! *keels over with feathered letter opener sticking out of back* 

MY NOTE: *stretches, yawns, knocks back a shot of medicinal Appleton's* It's CARIBANA, you moron! Nobody calls it the Scotiabank Caribbean Carnival but Scotiabank.