The Canadian Sportsman

Sportsman Extra - Blog & Features

Know What I Hate?

Back To Current Blogs
Displaying 10 to 12 of 13

October 07, 2009

Cripes, $2.50 for a crappy thimble of hot chocolate?

By Merv Oswalt

Cripes, $2.50 for a crappy thimble of hot chocolate?

 

Everything costs too much these days.

 
Where do they get off charging $6 for a box of cereal or five bucks for a brick of cheese? For the love of Pete, I’ve got to take out a line of credit just to buy a box of no-name laundry detergent these days.
 
I remember when I could go to the grocery store with a crisp $20 bill and come out with a couple nice cuts of meat, a jug of milk, a quart of butter pecan ice cream and Bernie’s woman supplies, and I’d still have enough left over to wash, wax and gas up my car on the way home.
 
Today, if I’m lucky, 20 bucks gets me two bananas, a loaf of bread, frozen fish sticks and a roll of paper towels. On top of that, it costs me 10 cents to buy two plastic bags to carry it home in. It’s highway robbery.
 
Charging for plastic bags? I guess there are no free lunches anymore. My tree-hugging son Robbie says it’s all about the environment and being ‘green.’ I think it’s about the grocery store getting more ‘green’, if you know what I mean.
 
I’ve been ‘recycling’ plastic bags around my house for years. That’s what I always used to pick up after my dog Patches so my yuppie neighbour Christopher doesn’t ruin his fancy Italian penny loafers by stepping in a steaming pile of junk that Patches left on his lawn.
 
I’ve been doing that to be nice all these years, and to smooth over neighbour-relations after the unfortunate doggie-do slip ‘n slide incident of ’98, but I won’t be doing it at five cents a pop. The yuppie is just going to have to watch his step from now on.
 
But what really chaps me is getting ripped off at the track, and I don’t just mean the 62 per cent takeout or whatever it’s up to now. The slots players get everything comped, but I’m playing $2.50 for a thimble of hot chocolate. Cripes, it’s just water and powder and it’s not even hot half the time. For that price, I may as well just go to Starbuckers with Christopher and blow my whole pension because they at least put it in a full-size cup.
 
Unless this magical racetrack hot chocolate is handmade cocoa flown in first-class from a chocolaterie in Belgium, I don’t want to be paying more than 75 cents for it. Better yet, make it free because I’ll be spending a few bucks tonight at your ticket windows.
 
Hot chocolate for $2.50, are you kidding me? It’s a king’s ransom. I could be buying 50 plastic bags for that amount.
 
But I won’t.
 

 

Comments (1) Print

October 02, 2009

God, I hope my fat librarian turtleneck isn’t lucky

By Merv Oswalt

God, I hope my fat librarian turtleneck isn’t lucky

 

 

 
I hate turtleneck sweaters. They scratch my skin and give me a headache.
 
My daughter Beckie gave me one for my birthday last month. She said that I needed some colour in my wardrobe so she picked out a red one with a small white snowflake embroidered on the neck. All of which would be good if I was a 45-year-old spinster music teacher.
 
Why did I need this? She’s got a heart of gold, but she should have saved her money. Times are hard and I need a red-snowflake turtleneck like I need a $1 win ticket on a 1-9 shot.
 
The stupid sweater has been in my closet since I got it. Bernie convinced me to wear it for the first time the other day when I was going to take Beckie out for supper. I had a headache within minutes. With some time to kill before Beckie got off work, I slipped into Flamboro for a few races.
 
My racing buddy Carl shook his head. “What’s with the sweater? You look like a fat librarian.” I decided not to mention that Carl’s wife is, in fact, a fat librarian and asked him who he liked in the 5th. We threw in together and took a flyer on a triactor. The favourite broke and we cashed in. The next race I had 10 across on a 5-1 shot that came in.
 
“Maybe it’s your lucky lady sweater,” said Carl.
 
God, I hope not.
 

Comments (0) Print

September 04, 2009

Market this: get your circus off the tarmac so I can see the post parade

By Merv Oswalt

Market this: get your circus off the tarmac so I can see the post parade

I always thought marketing was what Bernie does on Saturday mornings when she gets up at the crack of dawn to pick and paw at fresh fruits and vegetables. Apparently not.

I’m told that marketing is the reason why I have to listen to a half-baked stand-up comedian or some blockhead in a cowboy hat do an impersonation of some rattle-and-bang rock band between races.

If I’ve never heard of the supposedly famous version how much do you think I want to see the knock-off making a racket? They could have Mel Torme himself and I still wouldn’t want him singing while I’m trying to watch the post parade.

I remember when entertainment at the track was watching the light bulbs flash as the odds changed on the toteboard. That was nice. There was mystery, suspense, intrigue and interactivity — everything you could ask for. I could be entertained for hours.

Now, they play “Let’s Make A Deal” in front of the grandstand all night long and sometimes even rope the poor drivers into the act. I want my driver focused on bringing home my 6-1 shot in the next race, not urging me to pick what’s behind door #2.

My racing buddy Carl just got back from visiting his sister Shirley in Indianapolis. He told me, if you can believe it, some redheaded whippersnapper threw Mardi Gras beads at him at the track down there and another guy winked at him. For the love of Christmas, what’s going on here??

My son Robbie says that all this stuff is just trying to ‘grow the game’. I told him, ‘You know what Del Miller did to grow the game? He built a racetrack, that’s what he did.’

“Whatever,” Robbie said, rolling his eyes, as he left to put his name in for the third round of Let’s Make A Deal.

I have no son.

Comments (2) Print
Displaying 10 to 12 of 13
Back To Current Blogs