rant is where the heart is

diaryland: sirilyan.diaryland.com: entry for 2000-08-17 (11:50:17)
In which our plucky young hero has a large double-double and a box of salvation.

I have nothing important to say today, but like that's ever stopped me.

First: I know that people read this thing; I see the bread crumb trails left by my insidious tracking device. But who are you? What do you want? Have you got guns? I want someone I don't already know to write me.

Second: Jesus can ruin anything, dammit. I was all set to ask people to get extra karmic goodness by telling me about their experiences at the A&K Lick-a-Chick, Bras d'Or (pronounced "bruhdoor"), Nova Scotia. I figured this would be a reasonably difficult task, because the Lick-a-Chick is famous only among those who have driven long distances through Cape Breton. You can find mention of it on Google, but for the most part the mentions are buried in the middle of porn site ads.

Well, little did I know that the Saviour, the fisher of men, had chosen two years ago to appear on the wall of the donut shop across the road from the Lick-a-Chick. Yes, folks, the Canadian equivalent of seeing the Virgin Mary in a tortilla has come to pass, and it came to pass on the island where I have (to date) spent the majority of my life.

Have I mentioned lately that I am happy to be rid of Cape Breton? I haven't? Well, I'm so happy to be rid of it, thanks for asking.

I have to admit that there's not much that really happens in Bras d'Or, even by the relaxed standards of "happening" that prevail in much of backwoods Nova Scotia, but still, did it really have to be this?

I mean, it ruined a great contest and everything.

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