Two Canadian authors walk into a bar. Both are struck with the realization that they are throwing their lives away, drinking in this small town, trying to forget their years on their family farms, bathing in darkness, both literal and figurative. They turn away and walk to their respective homes in silence, never to speak again.
Q: Why wouldn’t the blonde Canadian author put maple syrup on her pancakes?
A: It tastes of tears, smells of her father’s beard; sweetness is cancelled out.
A Canadian author, a farmer, and a First Nations teenager went fishing. The farmer mostly sat there quietly while the author and the teenager tried to find common ground, even though the gulf between them felt massive. World’s apart, torn by government, laws, feelings, lost lands, lost loves, a deep unending feeling of loss. The farmer just listened and snatched salmon from the icy water.
Q: What dogs keep the best time?
A: Sarah could hear her old Labrador barking, but she didn’t think twice about it. While her northern Ontario town was quiet, she lived right on the main strip, meaning anyone going to the main shop would have to pass by her place, waking up Bruno. Even as he aged, his ears were still sensitive, although his eyes were looking cloudier each day.
“Who’s there? I live in the middle of the Prairies, alone amongst the tall grasses.”
“… I’m the ghost of your past and your family.”
Q: What did the horse say when it fell?
A: Nothing, it just scrambled until it was back on its feet and ran off, spooked. His rider, Brian, was left on the ground, a tiny trickle of blood seeping from under his hat. His dreams of taking part in the Stampede were shattered now as his legs lay useless and soft beneath him, but he didn’t realize this yet. Instead, he sank into a deep sleep and dreamt of ocean spray and pine trees, the air thick with the hum of bugs and the smell of wood and sap.
An 80-year-old Canadian writer goes to the doctor for his yearly checkup. The doctor tells him that he’s still doing well but asks, “Gord, are you at peace with God?” Gord stares into the distance and remembers being in the tiny church in his hometown in Newfoundland as a child and the feeling of the cold pews on the back of his legs. It was his father’s funeral, and everyone smelled like smoke and fish, for his father was a fisherman. His eyes start to water, but he looks back at the doctor and says, “Yes, I have made my peace.” He then goes home and looks through photos and thinks about the last time he and his father spoke, 68 years ago.
A Canadian poet is sitting at the bar
says to bartender, a whiskey
The bartender wipes down the glass,
slides it across the bar
through loonies and toonies like stars
on the wet wood
drink, drink it all away
we are all lonely here
Q: What’s the difference between male Canadian writers and female Canadian writers?
A: Systemic sexism within the industry has proven time and again that women must work harder to have our voices heard, and it is integral that we work together to make sure the voices of minorities and First Nations people are heard alongside ours. We should see no difference and have all of our stories be equal, no matter what our gender or background.
Two married Canadian authors are in the kitchen. The husband reads the paper while his wife makes eggs and toast. Suddenly, she looks at him and goes, “Make love to me right this minute.” Even though his bones have started to show wear after years of working in the nickel mine, he grabs her with his rough and calloused hands and tears the robe from her body. Afterward, they lie there on the table. He says, “Why did you ask me to do that?” She looks at him with eyes that seem younger than they have in years and goes, “I had forgotten what it was like to be pressed up against your skin. We have spent too many years in the winter of our marriage.” They feel better and kiss deeply, as though for the first time, but all over again.