Category: Adventure

DUTCH FISHING BOY TALES, Journal Entry #627:
by Bobby K

Dear Diary,

My buddy Mike is coming over in half an hour, but I still gotta get the grass cut so my mom doesn’t get pissed at me, especially after that last fiasco when I said I’d take out the garbage, but I forgot to do it for like 16 days or something, I can’t remember…

I’m gonna get high as fuck first, and crank out some unintelligible screamy tunes. Gonna play my shit loud enough to wake the deaf comatose old fucks at the hospital. Gonna be awesome!

Oh fuck.

Umm, as I was finishing the lawn, I crossed the walkway to the neighbour’s apartment. I totally smoked their welcome mat! It blew out the side of the mower like a flock of angry birds trying to escape the pits of hell.

FLOOOMP!!

Shit, I gotta remember that word when I tell Mike this story. It was more like…

FLOOOMPHH!!
Yeah! That was the sound!!

He came over and said we should just find the pieces and put it back together, and no one would notice.

We did our best.

But now it just says CUM.

You know what’s fucking stupid?

Today I had glorious chance after chance after chance to stop at any number of unique Lake Superior beaches/rest stops/scenic lookouts/prostitute-friendly-zones/etc, etc, et fucking cetera, but I was hellbent on “making good time” while the weather and road conditions were in my favour.

Why?

I DON’T FUCKING KNOW!!!

I have zero motivation to get back to my shitty slave-job. I’m more than happy to never play the game of indentured servitude again. I talk so much shit about wanting to be free, adventurous, and ever spontaneous, but instead of listening to that ever wise inner voice whispering (sometimes screaming) into my enfeebled brain — “Mike! Turn here! Turn Here! You won’t regret it,” I just kept driving and driving and fucking driving, cuz a “responsible” slave-bitch gets back to work as soon as possible after a “holiday,” and doesn’t let the team down.

With gas-stops and coffee-purchases and random conversations with gay Dutch loser friends who have mental problems more disturbing than mine, it’s been a 14-hour day on the road, so I’m pulled over somewhere just west of Sudbury, calling it quits for the day and rethinking my motivations on Planet Stupid.

I kinda want to get more into philosophical ramblings at the moment, but I’ve learned my lesson about getting a blog post finished in a timely fashion when a shitload of irrelevant pictures need to be downloaded.

Well, not irrelevant, but conducive to “putting your money where you’re mouth is,” whatever the fuck that means…

So here’s how the Sub-Quest is going so far…

Tim Horton’s, Kenora:

FAIL!

Tim Horton’s, Sault Ste Marie:

FAIL!

Tim Horton’s, White River:

IRONIC MEGA FAIL!

Alright, enough.

We’ll see what Part 5 entails tomorrow. I may fake my death in the morning, but not committed to anything yet.

Cheers, freaks, see you on the flip side.

Okay, yeah, I know, I’m way fucking behind on my road trip posts, but cut me some slack. It ain’t easy being a one man team getting this ridiculous production together.

[Editor’s Note: Fuck you, Mike!]

I’m actually on my way back home at the moment. Just rolled into Thunder Bay, and randomly picked the first dark parking lot that caught my attention. Gonna van camp here for the night, and piss repeatedly on their dumpsters…

You know what’s fucked up? I’m looking at this stupid “petvalue” sign right now from the van, and I’m not sure if the “e” is burned out, or it’s just the weird angle I have, or if Pet Value is actually meant to be pronounced Pet Valloo.

I think I need some sleep.

Oh, yeah, I did find Huskie!!

Bye now.

[Editor’s note: Empty your bladder, settle in, and take frequent breaks ingesting the minutia of the following diatribe. Clearly the author is trying to compensate for whatever shortcomings he felt after Part 1’s post]

Alright, it’s Day 2. Where did we leave off? Oh yeah, that fucking moose on the side of the road that caused me to partially soil myself, motivating me to find the next available rest stop to get the hell off the two-lane-death-trap-mountain-road I was stupidly trying to navigate in the brutal darkness of a moonless sky.

I awoke at 6 AM in the visitor’s parking lot in Agawa Bay. It was still dark as fuck, but I felt fully recharged and ready to hit the road again. I was only an hour away from Wawa, and highly motivated to get a selfie with one of Canada’s iconic giant stupid statues that litter the Trans-Canada highway — the legendary Wawa Goose…

I figured it would be a leisurely drive — cuz who the fuck else would be awake at this hour? — but I was sorely mistaken. There’s nothing worse than seeing rapidly approaching twin beams in your rearview mirror just when you wanna cruise along at a couple K over the speed limit, with nary a care in the world.

Fuck.

As the douchebag speed demon rapidly caught up to me, I saw the sign for passing lanes ahead, so I didn’t get too perturbed. I timed his approach masterfully so he could blow by me just as the extra lane emerged.

But then that shitty-fucking-orange-bane-of-my-existence construction sign reared its ugly fuckface once again.

Drat.

Not only was the passing lane not open, the entire road was asphalted into a blackness darker than the pucker of Satan’s asshole. My only reference to demarcate the middle of the next 5 km stretch was a series of 2 inch yellow dots, spaced apart every 16 feet, that some douchebag engineer paid minimum wage slaves to paint on the road for “safety,” without realizing they turn invisible every time an 18-wheeler bears down on you from the other direction.

[Editor’s note: Uh, Mike, move on. You have a lot of ridiculous pictures to download tonight if you want to get this insane rambling published]

Right, sorry Mr. Editor, we’re just getting started…

I rolled into Wawa as the day broke, happy to bask in the light of Jesus once again. I thought for a moment I might have passed the golden goose statue I so sorely sought, but then God sent me a sign… Turn Here, Bitch! Or maybe it said Visitor Information, Next Right. I can’t remember.

But here we are!!!

I decided to top up my gas tank before hitting the next leg of my journey, and as I pumped the last dribbles of dinosaur juice into my machine, I caught sight of a larger than life aesthetic abomination I absolutely needed to record for posterity’s sake…

Methinks it was the wisely rejected prototype for the Wawa Goose. The town council prolly realized that commissioning half blind children with learning disorders to build a statue was, in retrospect, a piss-poor decision…

Just one more stop before jumping back on the highway… cue the wild-west showdown music…

Did I learn my previous lesson about always using the drive-thru, and never again walking into what I thought was Canada’s most beloved franchise?

Oh fuck no…

I needed to see who was at the helm in this building, located in a town of 3,000 fur-trading descendants, or whatever the fuck reason they settled here….

Yup, nuff said. 2 for 2.

As I was the last one in line in the building, and Habib had nothing to do after taking my order, I figured he might just take 3 seconds out of his downtime to pour me a black coffee.

Oh fuck no.

The grizzled old fat bitch in front of me got her 4-cheese bagel, box o’ poison donut holes, and fancy hot chocolate well before any of the flunkies would consider breaking protocol of following the queue dictated by the monitors they worshipped so dearly. And once coming to the realization there were nine drones with headsets servicing the drive-thru of 20 vehicles that passed me by like a fast-moving Santa Clause parade, and one lonely bastard making bagels, bagging donuts, and pouring in-house coffee, I resolved (yet again) to never step physically into one of these buildings.

But then my disgust quickly turned to elation — I just stumbled upon an unexpected and absurd sub-quest to enjoy on my travels!

The mission? I’m stopping into every one of shitty fucking coffee houses I pass by, camera in hand, with the goal of locating, and taking a selfie, with an employee who’s actually a small town native, born and raised. Let the games begin!

Oh, and just to backtrack for a second — the only reason I called that woman a grizzled old fat bitch was because as she got into her car, parked beside mine, she whipped open her door and slammed it into the side of my machine.

I then heard the muffled words: “Roll it down,” as she stared into my eyes, like I was the one who did something fucking wrong here…

“It hit the metal,” she said. “There’s no damage. You can come out and check if you think I’m a liar.”

Jesus, why am I the one getting attitude here? Also, what the fuck does it hit the metal mean? The whole fucking thing is metal you fat old fuck!

“Um, okay, if you say so. I’m not that worried about it. Safe travels,” I replied.(Upon later inspection, she did indeed scratch the chrome-coloured guard that serves to protect against door-flinging cunts like her, lol)

Anyhoo…

Back on the road, the rising sun was quickly extinguished by ominous looking clouds. And before long, an hour-long inundation of sporadic torrential down pours made driving at night seem like a blissed-out stroll on a tropical beach.

I quickly learned that hydroplaning on a mountain road — although most likely less harsh on tire wear — was not my preferred mode of travel. Nor was I a fan of being pummelled by random tsunami waves generated by oncoming 18-wheelers.

But such is life on the road — where new adventure lies just around the bend…
Cue the Littlest Hobo theme…

With only about 7 hours left to my destination, I decided it was prolly time to chill and relax, knowing I had another full day at my disposal to get to where I wanted to be…

So I scoped out the next Provincial Park along my route, which turned out to be Kakabeka Falls (lol, kaka), and booked a campsite for the night.

Realizing there was enough daylight left to meander one of the hiking trails, I decided to forgo trying to find the namesake attraction to this park, and sought out “the Little Falls,” located at the very end of the longest and most “difficult” trail.

[Editor’s note: In Provincial Park hiking terms, “difficult” means having the endurance and lung capacity of a light to moderate smoker, and ability to step over random tree roots without twisting an ankle]

Also, “difficult” implies there’ll be a minimal amount of douchebags traversing the woods when you want to be left the fuck alone, so I was pumped for the trek…

I really had no expectations of what I would find at the end of the trail, as sections of it elevated rapidly, only to be met with rapid descents. Was I gonna be at the top of this thing, or the bottom??

Just then, I heard the trickle of water, and bam! There she was! LOL…

It was kinda pathetic and totally fucking cool at the same time. And I also realized that all the stressful rain I encountered earlier while driving was probably the reason this thing was actually flowing, instead of being a dried up rock face. Coolio.

Made my way back to camp, and realized the actual tourist falls were just up ahead, so I decided to check out why the parade of day visitors were dropping 10 bucks a pop the see this thing.

And you know what? As much as I hate douchebag tourists, the 10 bucks woulda been totally worth it. Pictures don’t really do justice to the raw force and magnitude of nature’s spectacles. It was pretty fucking sweet…

Back at camp, it was time to settle in and get some writing done. I decided to forgo putting the tent up, as my little home away from home would be sufficient again for yet another night — generator, bed, pizza blanket… what more could a degenerate hobo ask for?

That’s all for now. Part 3 at some point, featuring a stop in Kenora to find Huskie the Muskie.

Happy trails…

There’s no embellishment when I say it’s been a looooong fucking time since adding a segment to the Adventure category of this stupid-ass blog, so I’ve decided to document the trials and tribulations of driving from Goderich, Ontario to the suck-ass town of Winnipeg, where I’ll be attending my kid’s glorious triumph of marrying the woman he loves.

I’ve got plenty o’ time to get there, as the wedding’s on Sunday, and today is only into the last throes of Thursday. But once I hit the road, the madness of reaching my goal tends to overtake my common sense, which usually means driving an unnecessary 12 hours a day to get to where I want to be.

Hey, Mike, relax, enjoy the journey, stupid!

Yeah, yeah, I know, shut the fuck up Mike, I’ll do what I wanna do, bitch!

My brain doesn’t really have a half-assed mode, unless I ply it with various amounts of drugs and alcohol. Even after a 15-hour shift at my soul-numbing slave-job working as a flunky sous chef, I tend to be running circles around my douchebag cohorts who are incessantly whining about how tired they are after their piddly 5-hour shift that they mostly spent fucking the Benmiller dog in it’s gaping ass.

But nevermind that.

I don’t have a lot of time to get these notes down, as I want to grab some Z’s and hit the road early again, so let’s quickly muddle through the highlights of the journey so far…

Fuck, I’m way to verbose. I want to write a shitload of subtle details, and I want to add images, but time is a factor here — I’ll edit the visuals in later. So if you’re a subscriber, sorry loser, this is just gonna be text, with nothing to distract your brain from actually reading without a random stupid meme to break up the print. Also, love you!

The first noteworthy observation was a quick stop in Espanola to get some gas and grab a cup o’ joe. I decided to walk into the Tim Horton/Wendy’s structure instead of going through the drive-thru, as I thought it would be a more efficient process than dealing with the parade of cars rolling off the highway, and I needed to stretch my stumpy legs as well.

Holy fuck, I couldn’t have been more incorrect.

There’s something about cruising through rest stops in Northern Ontario that I love — it’s the friendly faces and cordial demeanour of the punk-ass teenagers, and elderly alike, who work their shitty, minimum-wage gigs because they either have dreams of moving to the big city, or they’re just content to find their niche living in a small town, earning enough fake plastic dollars to fund them through whatever goals and/or acceptance in the life path they’ve chosen.

The Tim Horton building was NOT that.

Good fucking god, it was so fucking NOT!

I want to be clear here that I’m not some racist asshole who gets bent out of shape when the local gas station/pizza place/convenience store/coffee shop is systematically bought out by “entrepreneurs” who weren’t born in this country. Kudos to you for being ambitious. My fucking problem with these assholes is that they treat me like I’ve done something wrong if I want to say hi, make small talk, smile, or say anything that doesn’t involve getting the fuck out of their face as quickly as possible — they seem offended by the very fact I have the audacity to use their service.

No words, no eye-contact, no basic humanity. Just pay for your gas and get the fuck out, you white-devil cunt…

That was the basic experience in the Espanola Timmy’s, and I surmise the Indian family owned the Wendy’s side as well, because not one local kid making student wage was in sight, just a group of pissed off humans, speaking broken English, who seemed seriously angry that I even dared to order a coffee, which ultimately took ten minutes to receive, because Lakshme couldn’t pour it himself, he had to assign my name Nike — not Mike, Nike — to a computer screen that gave me a fucking waiting time behind all the other cunts on some third world tour bus who ordered bagels and donuts and shit without onions that needed to be serviced sequentially.

Also, I came within 3 feet of slamming into a moose that was the size Godzilla, no embellishment.

So I decided to park, and wrote this.

Day 2 tomorrow, see you then…

 

 

 

 

It’s been a while since I added a post in the Adventure Blog category.

And that’s mostly because I’ve been tethered to “full-time” employment for faaaaar too long a stretch. And by full-time I mean a consistent 50+ hours a week trading my soul for plastic dollars. My last real taste of freedom was many moons ago, touring Central America with nothing but a backpack and a reckless disregard for self-preservation. Fuck that was a good time.

Lemme backtrack here a second — the word tethered I used earlier is actually quite incorrect. That’s more of a word some whiny fuck (me?) might use to somehow suggest “I had no choice in the matter!”

But I most assuredly did.

No one backed me into a corner and said flip eggs or die. No one put a gun to my head to work 16-hour days when people quit or got fired. No one guilted me into working an additional 2 years after my 9-month notice came and went. All that shit was on me. There are no true have-to’s in this world, there are only choices.

The have-to people are the ones perpetually befuddled by the differences between entitlement, comfort, and free will…

“I HAVE TO pay my bills, or they’ll cut off my hot water!”

Uh, no, asshole. Incorrect. You don’t have to do any such thing — except maybe admit to yourself you prefer hot showers over cold ones, and then shut the fuck up about paying for services you’ve intentionally contracted.

“My rent went up again, I can’t believe I HAVE TO pay another hundred dollars a month!”

Um… you don’t, fucker. Maybe it’s more honest to admit you prefer a roof over your head versus living in a box in the woods. Surviving without a fixed address is very possible, just not high on your entitlement list.

It’s the same complaints with rent, cars, Netflix subscriptions, grocery prices, and all the worthless baubles shipped to us from Amazon in 24 hours or less. So you can either figure out a way to pony up the dough for the perks you’re addicted to and quit your incessant bitching, or learn to live without.

Granted, one might make the argument that choices are “easier” to make when a healthy bank account is involved — this I concede— but one must also realize that each and every previous choice we’ve made has determined either the robust health, or COVID-like fragility of our present-day finances.

I made a choice a decade ago to squirrel away a few bucks every month with the intention of funding an improbable (and somewhat idiotic) dream of buying a sailboat and traveling the world, and that decision has finally paid off, leaving me in a position where I can comfortably say Fuck You to the next taskmaster offering me some bullshit minimum wage gig. Suck my balls, massa.

Wanna know what I like about unemployment? What I like more than working 50 hours a week at a job I’ve lost passion for?

FUCKING EVERYTHING!!!

The air smells sweeter. The birds chirp more happily. Hell, even my roommate seems less irritating when he talks about leveling up his Ewoks to fight his Ewoks.*

[*Editor’s Note: That’s a complete lie. Conversations about weather patterns in Texas annoy the fuck out of me too, Johnny. Get a fucking life!]

I feel like my baseline has been reset. My atrophied sense of adventure and wonder has returned. Although no palm trees are currently involved in the equation, my waking days feel a lot like they did when I was wandering Guatemala for 2 months.

And one more unexpected quirk happened… I quit da beers. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the day I left my job. For a junkie like me, that ain’t too shabby.

Now don’t get me wrong here — I’m not mentioning this because I consider myself some superior, enlightened asshole who’s gonna start preaching to you the evils of running ethanol through your liver. Fuck that. There ain’t nothin’ worse than a reformed alkie talking about their 10 years of sobriety like they’re some kinda fucking hero. That’s almost as loathsome as trying to have a conversation with a hardcore vegan who just discovered CrossFit. Shudder.

This ain’t no “game-changing” moment in my life, just another choice.

So why mention it?

Because the timing was more than coincidence.

I probably sucked back, on average, 6-12 beers a night for the last 5 years. No embellishment. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Mostly more. The habit was part of my routine to numb my brain and escape the daily drudgery of my chosen commitments.

Breaking the habit was a simple realization:

Create a life for yourself you don’t feel the need to escape from.

I like those words. When you go to bed excited about the nutty things you wanna do in the morning, and wake up in that same mindset, there’s a good chance you’re on the right track.

I’m not saying I’ll never have a beer again, but for now, I’m good. If I do choose to partake in a tall, bubbly, golden, delicious beverage somewhere down the road (stop it Mike, stop it! haha), then I’ll do so with conscious intention and full awareness of the inevitable consequences that always follow.

Oh fuck, now I totally sound like a holier-than-though douchebag.

Sorry, my bad.

.

The name of the game in this post is still adventure, so let’s end with a quick (not so quick) story…

Just as I was on a roll getting my electronics installed in the boat, the weather took a turn for the worse. Or is it the worst? I don’t fucking know, but let’s just say the weekly forecast sucked some serious ass — too cold to work at the marina, and definitely too cold to mix epoxy on the boat.

The typical Mikey reaction might’ve been to brood about how Mother Nature’s timing was COMPLETELY FUCKING UNFAIR (possibly triggering a visit to the purveyor of spirits down the road to purchase some “mood-enhancing” juice), but an alternate choice of action presented itself in the form of a schizophrenic conversation…

Me: Fuck! Why a cold spell now? I’m in the fucking zone, this ain’t fair!

Other Me: Dude, shut the fuck up. You want s’more cheese with your whine? Do you own a generator?

Me: Yeah.

Other Me: Do you own a portable heater?

Me: Um… yeah.

Other Me: Super. And are you now able to deduce the course of action I’m suggesting without me slapping you upside your stupid fuckface?

Me: Hmm. Wait. Holy shit, I have a great idea!!!

Other Me: Christ what a moron. I don’t how I dealt with me all these years…

So I packed up my gear and off I went — into the sub-zero windstorm at the marina, hellbent on making whatever progress I could, glass of whine forgotten.

I fired up the genny, barricaded my cabin opening, and before I knew it, it was a balmy 8 degrees inside the boat. Sweet. As the windstorm raged, I felt oddly soothed. The vibration of the boat on my trailer felt a lot like just another day bobbing on the water. Double sweet!

As the gas in my generator dwindled down, and the sun (what sun?) began to edge t’ward the horizon, it was time to call it a day. I felt smugly satisfied for being the only nutjob at the marina getting a jump on an early lift-in.

What I hadn’t realized was that the accumulating snow was a tad more voluminous than anticipated.

Driving up the hill made me immediately aware of that.

The first leg leaving the marina is a modest incline, followed by a small, level landing, and then one more steeper grade before reaching the exit.

And so the adventure began…

Me: Fuck. Am I seriously spinning my wheels here?

Other Me: Yeah stupid. You’ve never actually driven this road in heavy snow before, what did you expect? Calm the fuck down, let ‘er roll backwards, and try again.

Now here’s something new I learned — fishtailing is a phenomenon that occurs both forwards AND backwards when you’re traversing a snowy hill. Apparently gravity is some kind of twisted sorcerer.

Other me: Just steer, stupid. You’ll be fine. Reassess the situation when you reach the flat part.

Some bonehead once told me that driving on winter tires in the summer eroded the rubber faster than in winter due to increased friction during hotter months. After I was done laughing, I thanked him for the physics lesson, and drove the fuck away.

Well, it seems Captain Physics may have been onto something. As I checked out my front tires (the winter tires that’ve been on my front-wheel drive car for a year and a half), they appeared to be balder than Patrick Stewart’s ass. Fuck, I hate when smarty-pants people are right.

Me: Okay, I’ll just back up as far as I can, and get a decent running start this time. Should work out fine.

Other Me: HAHAHAHA, I fucking love this moron!

Round 2 wasn’t much more impressive than the first run, but I definitely churned more gravel than snow this time…

Other Me: Oh boy, round 3! This should be worth the price of admission…

And the spectacle didn’t disappoint.

As the tail of my car oscillated left and right like a pendulum on crack, the peak of the hill inched agonizingly closer. Did I have the momentum?

Me: I got this.

Other Me: I dunno…

Me: No, I got this!

Other Me: You sure?

Me: Fuck. Fuck me! No wait, I got this, I got this!!!

And I gunned the motherfucker like no tomorrow as I laughed maniacally while reaching the top. The rush of adrenaline that hit me made me realize that naturally occurring body chemicals were a really cheap way to get high, no beer necessary.

Me: (still laughing like a psychopath) Yeah!! Fuck yeah! I’m gonna do that again!

Other Me: Sigh. Go the fuck home, junkie.

I remember sitting on my girlfriend’s couch 8 years ago, having a discussion with her about what options were left to live as freely as possible in this insane asylum we lovingly refer to as Planet Earth. As prisoners in an open-air pen that we call our “country,” how could we skirt the system — to slip under the radar, and fully explore our god-given autonomy?

It wasn’t long before a realization occurred…

The fucking sea! The last true Wild West humans can still exploit if they have the balls to push a frontier of exploration.

We ended up bookmarking a bunch of sailboats for sale (sail, haha) that day, fully aware we neither had the resources nor skills to bring the idea to fruition.

But the idea stuck.

So without rehashing the journey I’ve blogged about in this ridiculous site I call BonerFruit, let’s just get to the nitty-gritty of why I’m writing this…

The S.S. BonerFruit is on the water! And I fucking love it!

You want some insight into how to live free and happy?

Simple, bitches… follow your fucking heart, and enjoy each trial and tribulation that unfolds. Immediate gratification is a lie sold to you by the fucking puppet-masters. If you want to make any headway in your grand scheme of happiness, you need to go all-in, and dedicate your time to the shit that rocks your world, no matter how long it takes.

Sure, it’s true I still have no clue what I’m doing, but I giveth not a fuck.

You wanna know what I’ve learned? Every day you practice your craft leads you one day closer to mastering your passion. You can sit on your shitty couch and watch Netflix all night cuz you “had a bad day,” or “felt stressed,” only to wake up to whine to your idiot co-workers in the morning about how life is unfair, burdensome, and stacked against you, or you can just get over your bullshit fears and live each moment to the fullest, hellbent on climbing whatever mountain screams to you the loudest.

Am I gonna die crossing an ocean? Probably. But there’s no way to know till I try.

Perhaps that’s a fitting sentiment to end this post…

How do you want to spend the rest of your time on this planet?

In fear of death?

Or in fear of life?

Suck on that one for a bit, I’m going to bed.