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Sunday, March 10, 2019

Go there. Be that. Share those things.

I'm Royal Flusher. I work at Royal Canadian Veeblefetzer in Flusherville. Otherwise, I either gamble, or wait to gamble.

Veeblefetzer is a maker of industrial quality discoidal pressure relief interfacements and surface protectors.

You might know these little round donuts as 'grommets'.

I've been making grommets almost my entire life. But when you look at your career, can you say that it is really that much different? Because one man's economic analysis paper or radioactive isotope product is another man's grommet.

It's what we do to make a living, what we do to get by, and how we spend the most productive years of our life.

And it's no wonder that when we're not doing that, we want to escape, go somewhere, and drink, party, and gamble. Plug in your favorite substance abuses, proclivities, escapes, and self-medication strategies.

Now, all that is grim enough, but add a Canadian winter (which seems to happen almost annually) on top and you really want to get out of Flusherville by the time March rolls around.

And so it is that I find myself and the Quad Queen aka Mrs. Flusher on the way to Las Vegas, to once again participate in a waking dream of riches and success, and barring that, maybe just a really good cheeseburger. Or a cold drink delivered by a cocktail waitress with a comforting smile, and whispers of fantasies unrealized around her curves.

For me, there is my time in Las Vegas, and then there is the time waiting to go back to Las Vegas. (Or recovering from being in Las Vegas, adds the Quad Queen.)

Sound scary? I'll tell you what's scary - I have a whole audience of blog followers and cheerleaders who feel exactly the same way.

And that's probably why they read this blog - to take them where they can't go at the moment, and to cheer, cry and laugh at my feeble attempts at competency.

The other day, I said to my friend and confidant Jimmy Poon (who is the technical wiz behind the curtain that keeps this blog keep turning over on the internet, and who is also a giver of sage advice), "Jimmy Poon, I'm so over work. It's such a drag! I drag myself in to work. I drag myself home. I drag around more than Ru Paul."

"Flusher," said Jimmy Poon, "you generally have a bad attitude in life." Jimmy Poon giggled, sounding like a 10 year old girl at a birthday party. Hee heeee heee. "You don't find joy in work? It's because of what you bring to it."

"But Jimmy Poon," I said, "you are always cheerful at work, and you are always giggling your little elfin laugh at me. How... do you do it?"

"Flusher," said Jimmy Poon, "it's simple. I have joy in waking up. Just waking up. I have joy in my family. I have joy serving them and serving my community. I have joy in my garden. I have joy cleaning. I have joy sparking out all over the place."

"Shit, Jimmy Poon, more than that tidying bitch?"

Jimmy Poon shook his head.

"Way more. With all that joy, work is nothing. It is not who I am. I am who I am long before I go to the plant."

"Jeez, Jimmy Poon," I said. "I'm kind of jealous."

"Flusher," said Jimmy Poon, "where do you find joy?"

I smiled.

"Go there. Be that. Share those things."

We sat in silence for a while. I pondered life. I just am no Jimmy Poon, but I kind of understood what he was saying.

"Jimmy Poon," I said, "It's as if your inner metaphysical being has manifested itself as a real and functional part of your id as expressed in daily life, in your mores and routines, and the way you interface in a familial sense with secular and non-secular philosophies applied through the lens, as it were, of an altruistic, yet technically advanced being, must mean that -"

"Flusher," said Jimmy Poon, interrupting the first train of thought I'd had in my cranial station for months, "Shut up and deal."

What's worse, living a 22 hour travel day, writing about a 22 hour travel day, or reading about a 22 hour travel day?

An early rise left plenty of time for me to do the last minute crap around the house that takes 4 hours somehow. Then a drive to the Flusherville Aerodrome, which provides the utmost in modern style and comfort.

Only half of these Flushervillians are at the aerodrome to take a plane. The rest are just there for the social scene, and to have a Coke.
I broke down and ate my first tuna salad sandwich (we each packed three, frozen overnight for safe travelling) in the waiting room.

Everything went fine, the Air FU Canada plane arrived - a lovely Dash 8 - and we were off to Pearson right on time.

The best part was scoring some of those Biscoff cookie biscotti things. A pretty tasty snack, given that it's Air FU C.

You have to remember, I have a penchant for room camping, and take ridiculous delight in foraging for 'free to me' condiments, snacks, food, cutlery, napkins and so on. I can not pass a Starbucks without stuffing my pockets full of stevia and Splenda packets.

Anyway, then a four hour layover in Pearson, where I broke down and ate the second of my three tuna salad sandwiches. And some emergency cheese.

The last hour of that was spent in a line, just in front of a screaming kid, who was louder than any industrial implement or tool in the Royal Canadian Veeblefetzer plant.

There were no upgrades available on the Rouge flight to Vegas, except their version of business class - at $475 an ass. There was no premium seating on the plane, other than exit rows.

I steeled myself (and my butt) for the worst. Mrs. F had the aisle, and I'd picked a window seat and prayed for one of the Lollipop Guide, or maybe a 100 pound vegan to sit in the middle seat.

No, of course not.

My seat mate was a crane operator with a 52" chest (I measured), a mighty draft beer abdominal protuberance, and a permanent manspread as wide as a set football goalposts.

Immediately I put in earplugs, sucked my focus inwardly, and started the 5 hour meditation of pain and hell.

We all hate it, and I think things are bad enough that some regulation is needed. It is torture, the way they cram us in, and the seats themselves are a joke.

Somehow, someway, I survived the flight.

I even managed to find the wherewithal to catch up on my favorite show - Married at First Sight Australia - where Jessika is definitely not getting an apology from Mick, and is going after Tamara's husband, Dan!!! This is Ines and Sam all over again!!!! (Shout out to my Aussie readers, I know you are out there!)

Finally off the plane, the simplest thing was to grab a cab to Mandalay Bay - which was fortunate, because that's where we had reservations.

Want to avoid being longhauled? Here's how you do it.

"Mandalay Bay. Take Tropicana, please. Don't worry, I'll take care of you."

"Yes sir!"

"And the name's Flushie. Not Flusher. You call me Flusher - I'll kill you.

"Lighten up, Flusher."

Check in was smooth, good room, good view, high up, and off we went gambling!


    1. As soon as i saw the interior picture i knew that was a dash8. Looks like you were in the center seat in the back row..savy move .I have spent way too much of my life inside one of those old workhorse planes.Good luck in vegas ,super stoked for a new flusher trip.

    2. a crane operator??? of course he was.

    3. Two things.
      Fly Westjet they are just so much better than Rouge.
      Use Uber or Lyft at the airport, way cheaper than a cab.


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