For the most part, the SEE poll (like our entire civilization) is concerned with consumables of one sort or another, be they ethnic restaurants, cultural buffets, or polished media celebrities. As a cheap-ass philosopher of some limited value, my favourite questions always have more to do with abstracts, like Scariest Intersection: for me the answer to that one being “the intersection of stubborn Albertans and the ballot box,” nyuk nyuk. But, seriously, questions about our specific culture are the ones that burrow deepest, and as I list off my own biased Best (Though Mostly Shittiest) Of YEG, all I ask is that you ask yourself, are we heading for a better or worse place?
SHITTIEST NEW TREND
The Death of Signalling. Why the fuck doesn’t anyone know how to signal any more? It’s quite easy, you know. Left, right, all that. Closest I can figure, it’s now considered some kind of act of “pussy” to let anyone know which way you’re going, which, if you think about it, has got to be the saddest fucking rebellion in history.
SHITTIEST SCAM
Two words: New Arena.
SHITTIEST DODGE
Ed’s Wind Power Lie. I know it’s been a couple weeks and therefore ancient history, but remember when Stelmach responded to the tailings-pond dead ducks by saying compared to the number killed by wind power, Fort Mac’s 500 quackers were insignificant. Total bullshit. Nationally, turbines take out about 1000 birds, period. In Alberta, about 150. A year. Numbers aside, two things to note: the premier will just make things up when he wants, and the reasons for him doing so will serve big oil. Undeniable evidence. Depressing, really.
BEST HOPE FOR US ALL
The Housing Slowdown. A friend of mine lost hundreds of thousands on a place during the grab-and-flip frenzy, but it’s still nice to see some general, cautioned exhaling. I think we all agree, even if you’re frantically raking in the paper: booms suck. They’re stressful, environmentally horrible, and greed sits low in the air like hovering sheets of factory exhaust.
SHITTIEST ABOMINATION ON OUR STREETS
The Giant Black Truck. Now that Whyte has descended to the cruising back-and-forth depths of 1989 Hanna, rural Alberta’s Saturday night main-street—the exact place that spawned Nickelback—the gimp parade is on! Mutilated VWs, smoke-belching Harleys, and the odd hot Z-28 waste gas for the sake of confused bravado, eking slowly down the trashy corridor of teenage hookers. It’s the vehicular equivalent of smoking three packs a nanosecond. Worst among the offenders is the JizzWhale: a staggeringly behemoth, four-door, black Ford F650 jacked up on monster tires, mud flaps the size of Leduc. Its ironic contents? Pure, microscopic penis.
BEST THING WE APPRECIATE AROUND HERE
You. Seriously, the fact that you’re not “reading” about some bullshit Hollywood celebrity’s fucking cellulite troubles right now warms my heart. I thanks and applauds you greatly, homie. Tight.
