It’s been a tough few months on the personal front. First came my renewed battle with Revenue Canada over receipts claimed as “research expenses.” All I can say is the matter of my microbrewery fieldwork is now before the accountants at H&R Pufnstuf. I expect to be fully exonerated.
Then came the accusations of nasal spray abuse, with claims of a video circulating of yours truly huffing on multiple bottles of Dristan in the company of questionable people at a seedy establishment. There has been some unwarranted speculation as to what’s on the video and in the bottles.
I want to tackle these accusations dead on. First of all – mad props to Alex Trebek via the mayor of Toronto for inspiring my response: no one asked me the correct question, stated in the form of the question, “Are you abusing nasal spray?” Wrong tense. I may have overdone the drug in my youth, but no one can alter the past (at least not without Christopher Lloyd and a tricked-out DeLorean). At present, I am a responsible nasal spray user. A furtive sniff now and then, that’s all.
So yes, I might have overused the old nose-rocket in the past. In the rumoured video I am two-fisting Dristan up both nostrils while making unfavourable remarks about Belgians and the local scrapbooking community. However, I cannot comment on the contents of a video that may or may not exist.
And no, I am not “addicted” to oxymetazoline hydrochloride, and never have been. I’ve had allergies since I was a boy, as did my father, who gave me my first bottle of sinus juice in 1971 during one of his “stupor borrachos,” as the Spanish call them. But it’s nasal spray we’re talking about here, not Hunter S. Thompson marching powder. I am in full faculties of my control.
On to the other accusations. A week ago I privately suggested a certain yogawear brand isn’t right for the body type of a specific person of the opposite sex. When this person asked if the pants made her “butt look fat,” I responded, “absolutely not, precisely the opposite.” I added that the scientifically engineered, sweatshop-made fabric was doing all it could through sheer molecular force to contain her “ample bodaciousness.” She took this as a sarcastic remark, and her 75,000 Facebook friends were soon typing away in feverish agreement. The word online is that I am a “cad,” “doofus” and “phallologocentric lookist.”
Guilty. I will not play the “it-was-only-the-Dristan-talking” card. I was a hurtful and unthinking remark and I take full responsibility for it. The yuk stops here.
However, I am not prepared to acknowledge other supposed misdeeds from the recent past. Coincidentally, only a few days after Liberal leader Justin Trudeau expressed his “admiration” of China’s dictatorship, a savage rumour began that I “appreciated” the rule of Vlad the Impaler, a 15th century Transylvanian leader whose management style incorporated nailing people’s hats to their heads. I was misinterpreted.
“The Chief Executive Impaler, said to have inspired Bram Stoker’s Dracula, made things happen,” I wrote on a Twilight fansite message board. “He was The Decider who could turn his economy on a dime. Vancouver’s Gregor Guevera and his Visionistas have nothing on the Vladster.”
Folks, I meant this in jest. I am a jester. In fact, I am at the keyboard wearing a cockscomb with jingle bells.
Finally, I must correct the public misperceptions about the “bike path” built through a neighbour’s front yard without permission. It was no such thing. It was a figure eight/infinity symbol formed with an ATV, after some late-night fieldwork at the local Legion. Okay, so I confused my lawn with his lawn, big whoop. My intentions were honourable: to engineer a world-class “earthwork” in a middle class, Lower Mainland neighbourhood. I even tweeted my intentions to the Block Watch list beforehand. If I made a mistake other than GPS coordinates, it was failing to anticipate a NIMBY-style backlash from the Croc-wearing Orcs in this suburban Mordor.
That said, I must admit in the harsh light of dawn, with the police lights flashing, it looked like a rushed piece of work. Perhaps this column will too when it’s seen in print. Deadlines will do that.
geoffolson.com
