Kevin Martin, the baldest of them all.

by Nic Olson

With Saskatchewan’s playoff loss in the Brier looming, and Montreal’s one night drop from first to fifth still hanging over me, Friday is a bit tainted.  I went home today to nourish myself with large amounts of beef and vegetables, two things I don’t get living on my own, and played a few rounds of pool with my dad, the moustacheless wonder. The house looks nicer than it has in 30 years, and it isn’t for us. It is for some poor, rich family who is getting robbed on the price of some 2x4s and bricks, laid out with hardwood and ceramic tile. Realty is a real harlot.

In a short amount of time, I will have the opportunity to quit my job. I have been looking forward to this since the first day I started working. There is just so much better things a guy could be doing. Shortly after I quit my job, I’ll start packing, and shortly after packing, I’ll start flying to India. 
When I was in India last time, people kept asking me when I’d come back. Being the responsible 18 year old at the time, I told them that I’d come back in five or so years, after my schooling was finished. I was wrong. India gets what she wants. And she wants me, and some friends, to caress her for the summer. Nothing is more exciting than this trip. Nothing is more exciting than leaving the country and getting groovy in India. That place owns me. 
I’ve got a 100L backpack that has two shirts and a pair of shorts in it. If anyone has anything the want to get to India for whatever reason, legal or not, send it my way. I’m a drug mule. A note, a book, a towel, a few Rupees. I will be sure it goes somewhere it needs to be, and won’t be used for some silly Canadians. Unless that is what it was intended for. Silly Canadians, rickshaws are for Hindus.
Love always,
Barack O’Clinton
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