Bob and Doug MacKenzie were fuckin’ awesome, eh? They were real fuckin’ funny and I bet you and all your buddies did Dave Thomas’s fuckin’ "coo roo coo coo coo coo coo coo" like it was the Fourth of July national anthem, didn’t yous? Well, I got a little nugget of information here to take to your thinkin’ department, fuck. They were fraigin’ bullshit. They were a bunch of rich, drama-club kids makin’ fun of hosers just because rich kids like to make fun of not-rich kids for not being smart. It goes like this, fuck: The government had instituted these protectionisimss so that America wouldn’t take over the TV, which is to say, that you had to have 20 percent of your TV shows be Canadian. Dave "DumbAss" and Rick "More-Anus" decided to show these new CanCon regulators how dangerous the law was by posing as two losers that took advantage of the law and got on the TV. Bob and Doug are a fuckin’ worst-case scenario—get it? Like if some anti-affirmative action guys did a comedy show where the president was a fuckin’ black retard with a ski pole for a cane. Fuck that estee!
You want to see a hoser movie, check oot fuckin’
Goin’ Down the Road from around 1970. They fuckin’ loved hosers so much back then, they didn’t even give the fuckers a plot. They could do no wrong. Those were the fuckin’ glory days. When a spade was called a fuckin’ spade. Then those
SCTV assholes had to make drinkin’ beer and givin’ ’er (I mean really fuckin’ givin’ ’er) into a big hilarious joke. Ha-ha. The Canadian workin’ class have funny-shaped mooths from being so drunk and they don’t have a lot of shit to do a show. That’s really fuckin’ funny, lads. You know what else is real funny, Bob and Doug? When yous make up words like "hosehead" and "take off." Who the fuck says that? "Hoser," I’ll give ya. "Eh?" and even "fuckin’ eh!" but the rest of that fake language is like Little Lord fuckin’ Fauntleroy talking in a fuckin’ poor-guy British accent so he can give "m’lady" some laughs at some fancy ball with a big chicken and gold. Those
Strange Brew (what is that, ’shroom beer?) college boys hit hoserdom so fuckin’ harsh they basically killed working-class Canadian culture forever. That’s it, that’s all, fuck ’em all.
Until…wait, what the fuck is this?
White and Blue? (You mean the Leafs colors?)
Trailer Park Boys? (Where, like an American trailer park?)
Fubar? (That’s a military term meaning Fucked Up Beyond All Belief, not a movie—right?) Those things exist!? What is this, fuckin’ Hoser Guevera climbing through the mountains of fuckin’ Brazil getting the troops together so’s they can rise up oot a nowhere and start a huge army to kill Escobar and fuckin’ take over à la
Goin’ Down the Road days? Are hosers back?! Fuckin’ right, they are. Back like a fuckin’ "How’s My Driving?" sticker.
Now, granted,
White and Blue is a piece-of-shit little video made for $1,000 ($600 of which was for all the two-fours they had to buy) and it’s probably only sold aboot twenty copies, but try this on for size: It’s fuckin’ funny. Two guys, Clunt and Jimmy, get so fuckin’ hammed on bottle tokes that they decide to steal a car and joyride from North Bay down to Toronto to see the Leafs. I don’t recall the word "take off" in the film. "Fuck off" was there, to be sure, but the makers of
White and Blue decided to leave "taking off to the great White North" to the college lads. Not the most widely distributed film in the world, true, but the next two examples are distributed by major fuckin’ players so just relax.
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Top row from left: Stills from White and Blue. Clunt drinks a beer with a cigarette in it; Clunt and Jimmy take a cab and then look for scalpers; a French Canadian scalper wants a blowjob in exchange for Leafs tickets. White and Blue is available from marcandjair.com.
Middle row from left: Stills from Trailer Park Boys. Bubbles (so named because he’s obsessed with an antique bubble machine that cats love); Julian with his rum-and-Coke and Bubbs; Bubbs greets Ricky and Julian shortly after the two get out of jail. Trailer Park Boys is the bittersweet brainchild of Mike Clattenburg and is available from showcase.ca/trailerparkboys. Bottom row from left: Stills from Fubar. Terry and his Pils beers at the homestead; Dean finally gets drunk enough to jump from the house to the garage; Terry and Dean; Terry at the goodbye barbeque to commemorate Dean’s last weekend with two testicles. Fubar is available from
fubar-themovie.com. |
On the one hand (the west-coast, Calgarian hand) we have
Fubar, a mockumentary aboot two fuckin’ bangers, Dean and Terry, who have devoted their entire lives to getting hosed no matter what (even if the filmmaker dies and one of the guys gets ball cancer). On the other hand (the east-coast, Halifax hand) we have
Trailer Park Boys. A mockeality TV show aboot two guys, Ricky and Julian, who are determined to grow so much pot that they can retire by the age of 35. "It’s called Freedom 35," says Julian, basing the name on the Canadian retirement fund Freedom 55. "All we have to do is grow a ton of dope and sell it to the prison guards for a huge mark-up. The weed in prison is fuckin’ shitty." Julian and Ricky even researched the plan by going to jail a bunch of times throughout their trailer-park lives. Are you wondering how they pull this off with such plums? This isn’t fuckin’
Bumfight I’m talkin’ aboot over here. This isn’t the "Shoot the Freak" paintball game at Coney Island. Knock-knock. Who’s there? A bunch of actors that grew up aboot five minutes from said trailer park. The actors and directors in
Trailer Park Boys do those dudes fuckin’ perfectly because they fuckin’ hung oot with them their whole lives. Take Bubbles, for example, the guy with the glasses. He doesn’t slip on banana peels so rich kids can watch him stumble all over the ground blindly. He does real shit. OK, granted, he appears in a porno for $160, because "that’s a lot of fuckin’ cat food," but he gets the tape back and there’s a lot of other manifistitions of his personality that is fuckin’ right on. For example, try not to get a little weary-eyed when he’s talkin’ aboot his fuckin’ parents abandoning him. "Den one day you turn
around" he says at the kitchen table with his giant fuckin’ eyes, "and you’re livin’ in a shed wonderin’ ‘Where did my fuckin’ parents go?’" Oh sorry, Little Lord Fauntleroy MacKenzies, there’s no pratfall. The guy got fucked real royal like by his parents and that’s the end of the scene.
is more than a sneak peek into the capital of east-coast hoserdom, fuck. It’s more like a soap opera where, instead of Tiffany breaking up with Brad because he fuckin’ crashed the yacht or whatever, we have Trixie dumping Ricky because he lives in Julian’s car and is only growing three pot plants in the back seat (she has a kid to feed). Hey, TV show executives! Check the fuckin’ economics reports. I haven’t ever crashed even a canoe, fuck.
’s another movie where you can tell the hosers who did it know what the fuck they’re talkin’ aboot. It’s aboot two hosers who have decided to keep given’ ’er right smack-dab through adulthood. Is that not a noble pursuit? It isn’t? Let’s see…getting fuckin’ hammed all day and fuckin’ chicks ’til you pass out is pathetic? Yeah, OK, that’s why every rich dude from fuckin’ Mick Jagger to Keith Richards has been doing for the past 50 years. Are ya getting it yet? These three new hoser films perfectly sumantify everything that Bob and Doug totally fucked up. Being a hoser is not aboot being a laughingstock. It’s about never giving up and partying forever. Fuck work. Like BTO said, "Takin’ care of business, every day. Takin’ care of business, every way." Fuck, in Fubar, when the Deaner realizes he has to have his ball removed, he gives a toast to his left nut, pours out a bit of brew and says, "To my left nut. See you later, little buddy." While Bob and Doug MacKenzie are drinking nonalcoholic beers with Mickey Mouse, The Deaner is willing to walk straight into cancer, fuckin’ brew in hand and a fuckin’ grin from ear to ear. You can laugh at a bunch of bangers brewing BTs and shotgunning two- fours all day, but guy, they are p-a-r-t-y-i-n-g. What are you doing? Unless you’re Maurice "The Rocket" Richard your life is about one–one hundred-thousandth as fun as a hoser’s. Just you keep sitting there in your cubicle wishing for Friday while we hosers keep fuckin’ givin’ ’er 24--7, 365, 1,000!
