How Ya Gettin’ On?: Snook Writes about Stuff

By Snook

“HowYaGettin’On?” is how downtown St. John’s, Newfoundland, corner boy Snook says hello. He’s been hanging around, telling yarns, and having a laugh for over thirty years now, and this is his welcome for you to read all about some of that.

Known as a fast talker and funny laugher, Snook finally jotted down some of his musings on . . . stuff—all sorts of stuff. Some of it’s actually half-decent, as they say.

So have a sit (wherever you please, or need to), relax your literary standards, and see what goes on in one of the most suspect minds and imaginations in this province.

Culled from weekly columns written for the Newfoundland Herald, this collection is not half bad. Enjoy! And rrrright on!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flanker Press
• Release date: Aug 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781771176378

Snook

Fast-talkin’, fun-lovin’ Snook has entertained thousands on stage, radio, and TV for over twenty-five years. Once a regular on CBC’s Here and Now, Madly Off in All Directions, and the Halifax Comedy Festival, Snook also hosted his own CBC variety series, Wicked Night Out, and still appears on the NTV Evening Newshour and at dozens of live special events annually. An extensive “gig list” includes some major ad campaigns, weekly columns in the Newfoundland Herald, and dozens of corporate functions every year. After two successful home videos, Snook’s Christmas CD was released in 2004. This home-run hit was followed by Snook’s Wicked DVD (2005), Snook’s Childhood CD (2006), Snook’s Christmas Concert DVD (2007), and Another Snook’s Christmas CD (2009). Snook also performs with Jim Payne and Fergus O’Byrne in the musical comedy group WickedAltogether!

Book preview

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Snook, 1960-, author

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-77117-636-1 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-77117-637-8 (epub).--

ISBN 978-1-77117-638-5 (kindle).--ISBN 978-1-77117-639-2 (pdf)

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from Library and Archives Canada.

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© 2017 by Peter Soucy

All rights reserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.

Printed in Canada

Cover Design by Graham Blair

Cover photos by Scott Bowering, Chris Thompson, and Randy Dawe

Flanker Press Ltd.

PO Box 2522, Station C

St. John’s, NL

Canada

Telephone: [phone] Fax: [phone] Toll-free: 1-866-739-4420

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We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture, Industry and Innovation for our publishing activities. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $157 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 157 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.

Dedication

I’d like to dedicate this, my own real book (published and everything), to Mudder, who made me, and to my buddy Dougie, who made me who I am.

Mudder is a saint, who will hove off and rest easy in a hammock up in heaven (when she’s ready), with buff guys fanning her with palm leaves and everything. She deserves all of that and more. And I’m sorry for everything I’ve put you through, Mom. Wasn’t on purpose.

Dougie is a buddy and a half, who doesn’t just make living fun, but takes the blame for anything that happens around him. He’s a party and a penalty-sponge in person form. Thanks, Dougie. When I don’t grow up, I wanna be you.

I’d also like to mention Principal Mullett, who always said I’d Never do nudding, never be no one, and always be proper useless. Where’s your book to, Mullett?

Right on.

Snook,

August 2017

Contents

A Column?!

Fall

Elections

Movember

Smokers

Premiers

Christmas Shopping

Libs

Flu and Shopping

Christmas Decorations

Snow Sports

Partying

Visa Bill

Star Wars

Cellphones

Gyms

Leap Year

Skiing

Laundry

Hockey

Paddy’s

Easter

Driving

Walking

Bath vs. Shower

Art of the Nap

May

Mother’s Day

Getting Up There

Politicians

Odd Jobs

Bonne Bay

Fadder

Litter

Beaumont-Hamel

July

High Country

Tely

Once Upon

Bikes

Senzo

Flying

Olympics

Ferry

Back to School

Food Fishery

Herald 70th

Scams

Tea

Pets

Goodbye

Photo by Scott Bowering

A COLUMN?!

Howyagettinon?

So, I’m just sittin’ around one day, flicking elastic bands at the ceiling, wondering how many tries it’ll take to knock the last crumbs of Dougie’s birthday cake off the lightshade . . . and the phone rings. Picks it up—missus from the Herald asking if I’m interested in writing a weekly column!

A COLUMN?! I says. I knows you’re not hard up.

Turns out that NTV, where I still show up on the Newshour from time to time, is having a big ol’ sixtieth anniversary, and the Herald, it’s sorta sister–TV Guide, is going all out and trying new stuff and whatever—to celebrate it all, you know. Right on.

So what odds, I figure—not like I haven’t got the time, or anything. Or find myself hard up for something to say, usually.

Sure, I’ll have a crack at that, I tell her. Pas de sweat—game on.

’Course I forget all about it, then—completely. Right out the other end, until POW! She zings me, just now, with an email reminder that she wants it yesterday and cough up, pally’ and other tough-guy, print-media-editor type of talk. And she means it.

Deadlines! Man . . . some tough. Especially when you’re not used to them at all, and don’t know if they’re fit to eat, hardly.

So I’m scribbling away here like mad now, on the back of a napkin from a fast food place, and I have to write between the grease spots and everything, and it occurs to me I might have a thing or two to learn, actually, about being a column writer. Not that it bothers me, mind you—just occurs to me.

So now that I’m halfway through my first instalment, let me get to my topic for this week: EARLOBES. Because they’re not really as boring or stupid as you might think. Seriously.

I got to thinking fairly hard about earlobes one time, and what struck me was . . . how useless they seem to be. I mean, all our other parts are there for some good reason, right? They have an actual purpose or job to do. Even our appendix apparently USED to do something for us. Don’t ask me what, ’cause I don’t know and I’m not looking it up, ’cause I couldn’t care less.

But earlobes bothered me. Are they some kind of fleshy sound-baffle to soak up the impact of certain loud noises? Are they leftover meat-drops from back when we had bigger ears for hearing tigers and whatnot trying to sneak up on us? Are they just jewellery-display units that evolution gave us to out-sexy the competition? Or what?

Anyway, I had to go online and everything, to find out, of course—and get this: I found a site that says they are likely just extra erogenous zones! I’m not making this up, I swear to God. It actually said, "There are recorded cases of orgasm entirely due to earlobe stimulation! I’m serious—it said that! And all I could think was, Jaysus . . . some lobes on ya."

So I guess I’m okay with earlobes now—so much so that I’ve taken up a bit of an ongoing study on the subject. There are several kinds, don’t you know: attached, floating, dimpled, double-dimpled. Most point forward, some down, and the rare set even angle to the back. You can pierce them, clamp crap onto them, and, God forbid, put those ever-bigger discs in them so they look like onion rings whenever you take those hockey pucks out.

The Chinese have a technique for rubbing lobes or sticking pins in them to cure certain ailments—but they’re always at that no matter what body part you can name, so . . .

Point is, there’s more to earlobes than people think, and I figured my first column here might be the proper opportunity to let you in on that gem of a fact. I was thinking I might keep such a juicy and riveting subject for when I really needed a dazzler, you know. But then got to wondering if my first piece could be my last, so go full hog right out of the gate, right? Start with a bang.

And that’s it—all done for now. Trust you’ll be anxiously pining away for column number two, now, after this home run of a premiere. Until then, happy anniversary, NTV, Canada’s Superstation. Just like the Herald, and earlobes, you too have golden moments of intense ecstasy. One just needs to pay attention, flick around a bit, and know with all confidence that certain prizes will indeed come. Oh yes, yes they will . . . Right on.

Fall

Howyagettinon? Y’know, I sorta like the fall. Kinda cool, right? With all the colours, funky smells and whatnot. The clean, crispy air, people on the move . . . Fit to eat, fall is.

And maybe the best part is all the fresh, homegrown veggies on the go: the bounty of the Rock. Spuds, turnip, carrot, and cabbage. Beets by the bushel. Tons of pumpkins and squashy sorts of produce.

Anyway, I look forward to each and every harvest season, when we get to reap what others sowed. And to be honest, I’ve always had a hankering to grow stuff myself too, right? Y’know, go all-farmer sometime—wicked.

Granted, looks like a lot of work, maybe, and more than I might be cut out for, I s’pose, but kinda fun too, I figure. Getting your field all plowed up and ready, with the proper stuff into it. Fertilizer and everything. Then doing the planting—get to wear overalls. Keep a sharp eye on it all, make sure it doesn’t get all parched, or munched by bugs and bunnies. Moose are bad too, I hear.

And then, the real satisfying capper to the whole racket: harvest. Oh what joy it must be to look out over your patch of green before you set to picking and piling up the payoff for all your labour. A living carpet of success, sir! Fresh, ripe, and free (sort of). And to think you made it all happen, with your own little mitts and a bit of sweat and cursing. Absolute bliss, I imagine.

Apparently . . . nope.

Not always, at least. Got another side of it straight from the horse’s mouth the other day: Dougie’s uncle’s buddy down in the Goulds.

We went out to get some lamb the other day, and I got to talking about the magic and the dream and all, and hooo-ly—buddy launched into me pretty good. All I said was how I thought it must be cool to have a small farm and grow stuff, maybe keep a few chickens and whatever.

You eejit! says buddy. This is nudding but a nightmare, ya knob.

How come? I asked. And off he went . . .

Farm animals are a curse, he says. Dirty, loud, poop everywhere, forever ruining everything and costing a fortune in food and vet bills. A lot of his problem with farming comes down to dealing with poop, in the end. Moving poop, spreading poop, living with poop all over you. Too much poop.

Then there are the pesticides and chemicals. Poison up the yingyang, and don’t let anyone tell you farming can be done without toxic crap everywhere, either, I’m told. The only thing more plentiful and widespread than dangerous substances is poop.

Also, vacations are out if you have a farm. You can’t leave because there’s always too much stuff to do that got to be done right now. Feeding and milking and weeding and watering and dealing with poop. You can’t leave an egg under a chicken for a weekend because it’ll be a veiny grossity when you crack it open, and that’ll haunt you for weeks.

The worst part of never getting away is that none of your farmer neighbours can escape either, and hence they’ve all long gone fully insane. Most have lots of guns for shooting rats and poop, and for any reason at all. Someone scored a goal? Gunfire. The goat ate the laundry? Bang. Buddy had one neighbour who started every day, at 4 a.m., blasting an air