Based on true gaming events, the story of how thousands of Sunnyvale residents were locked out of Sunnyvale Trailer Park on the Eve of Goldie the Gold Fish's Bornt Day, due to an update to Trailer Park Boys: Greasy Money that made the game unplayabl...
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Wasn't much of a rain at first. More of a limp dick misting. Joint didn't even go out. Fuck it.
Then the horse cocks of rain came dancing in to do the fuck you rumba all outside the trailer park wall. Lucky enough there was plenty of red tarp left over from Canada Day's red tarpet event to get under and out of the rain. It was at this point I discovered the joys of smoking dope under a tarp, how the smoke lingered in swollen puffs that lay around like Bubble's kitties and got you higher than giraffe balls.
As the afternoon progressed, more and more tarps started to appear around me, some with smoke drifting out from under, all with sore, red, angry eyes, glaring at that wall.
"How many seasons did you finish before you were thrown out?" one would call.
"34, I had Gary Laser Eyes, I had Baby Mo, I had everything."
"Everything except a better phone."
"Didn't even know I was lower-end until today. My phone was made with the name brand Dixie cups with real fishing line between them. Got me through 32 seasons."
"I mean, we build this park. When Canada's economy got fucked up, who was there getting customer bonuses, watching ads for online scratch offs and listening to the audio portion of the Pot Farm Grass Roots ad back when the liquor bonus was fucked."
Loud grumbles from inside many tarps. Over the walls, deep in the rain, a trumpet sounded.
"Goddammit to fucking shit," the small, pitiful cry of a child meeped, "they are starting the fishie's birthday without us. Jesus Murphy on a crutch driven chariot."
Deep behind the wall of rain and the wall of wall started the faint sounds of immoral actions being performed on immoral pinball machines by the East Side customer support department. Grueling sounds of bells going off over... and over... and over again until you had to scream to get it out of your ears.
"For fuck's sake," screamed Donnie, outside under his own tarp, "Will some one fucking stop all the fucking noise from all the pinball machine fucking?"
"I have just the thing," I said as I pulled out the red American release cover of a vinyl copy of Kim Mitchell's Akimbo Alogo. "Lets do drugs, get high and get on the Mitchell!"
For one brief moment, the roar of the tarps outside rolled over the clanging, ringing noise of pinball machines being ruined thoroughly.
We rigged up an ingenious stereo systems with crap phones and old broken bongs that not only rang out in perfect stereo but was also able to play just "Go For Soda" over and over on the tarp side of the wall, while the rest of the album played over the wall, right into Sunnyvale. The groaning started quickly.
"Who the fuck just played Diary for Rock n Roll Men?" came screaming from Sunnyvale, "Just put it on the first song, please! Please!"
"No, that's Feel It Burn, that's the first song on side two. Soda is on side one."
"Okay, now it's Lager and Ale, you need to get to side one before this gets out of control."
"Rumour Has it? Rumour Has It? Are you really going to play all of side two?"
"Fuck me to tears, now it is back to That's a Man on side one. What the fuck happened to Go For Soda?"
And the screams of annoyance and piss farting rose even higher from Sunnyvale, while outside the wall many tarps blazed through the rain soaked night, laughing and all singing:
"MIGHT AS WELL GO FOR A SODA... NOBODY HURTS AND NOBODY CRIES!
MIGHT AS WELL GO FOR A SODA... NOBODY DROWNS AND NOBODY DIES!"
I was smoking a big bowl of Sir John Macdonald OG (or SJMOG) and feeling the parts above my upper lip and below the crown of my skull numb out to a painted landscape, which faded into another until I was lost in a cerebral motel art show.
Suddenly a huge roar rolled out over the top of the wall from inside Sunnyvale.
"WHO THE FUCK IS RUINING GOLDIE'S BIRTHDAY WITH DEEP CUT KIM MITCHELL?"
"Well, I don't know!" Screamed Donnie from his tarp outside, "Who invited Facebuck to the fucking party and fucked thousands of people out of the park because perfectly good phones were ruled shitty overnight?"
"Everybody now!"
"Life seems to be a bomb inside you head/ Well the bomb in my head is love!"
"Nar, nar, narnar nar nar!" went the air guitars from under the tarps.
"All This debating going 'round in our blue mood/ makes me thirst for love!
"Nar, nar, narnar nar nar naaaaaaaar!"
"MIGHT AS WELL GO FOR A SODA...IT'S BETTER THAN SLANDER, IT'S BETTER THAN LIES!
MIGHT AS WELL GO FOR A SODA... NOBODY DROWNS AND NOBODY DIES!"
Soon the songs of many tarps outgrew the cries of miserable party goers inside Sunnyvale, who yelled during Love Ties, screaming during All We Are and finally dying down during the last few verses of Called Off:
"There are some things you can't tell to a woman/there are some things you just don't do to a man..."
"Yeah," I screamed, "Like telling them to Fuck Off after making Fuckwadillions of dollars with our used to be good enough phones!"
"Hey, you, the duck smoking dope under that red tarp," came a voice from the darkness. I suddenly smelled the odor of mackerel with the slightest hint of blueberries. "What are you doing under there besides smoking dope on this night of the evicted?
"Hi Phil," I said to the shape in the darkness. "Believe or not, I found a way to keep playing the game."
"How'ze that buddy? Sold your organs for a marginally better phone that will survive the next two updates?"
"No, fan fiction" I said, then turned up the Canadian Tire Camping Lamp, lit a fat ball of David Suzuki Sour hash and proceeded to put crayon to shopping bag and tell my tale.
