Here’s the problem….
It’s a holiday in Canada. Thanksgiving, to be exact. We celebrate it a month before Our Pants (that’s YOU, Mr. and Mrs. America) because we like to get it out of the way before the snow comes and turns our roads into slip n’ slides, our wives and girlfriends into our mothers, and ourselves (the men) into starry eyed dreamers who think the Leafs have a chance, the Blue Jays need us to manage them, and whoever our Prime Minister is, is a Poop of the Nincom variety.
My guess (always educated, never mitigated) is that the vast majority of our Canadian brethern and sistern are either just recovering from a turkey-induced tryptophan coma, or about to sit down to a bird-laden card table and ENTER a turkey-induced tryptophan coma. Either way, the result will render today’s column an afterthought and almost impossible to read passed out in front of the flatscreen with your belt undone, pants unzipped, and drool piling up on your shirt like the glaze on a Krispy Kreme donut. Sooo…my promised column has been booted to this coming Friday (where it belongs), Gary Pig Gold’s is postponed until NEXT Monday, and tomorrow, as a reward, the first chapter of Darrell Vicker’s new book begins the serialization of said book, ‘Bu House -Here Comes the Sun. Those gems require your attention, and today, you really don’t have any, so I offer this relevant rerun for those of you who can read while the game is on, the gravy dries on your shirt, or can read even though you are asleep or drunk or adrunksleep.
…and if you don’t believe that tryptophan is the reason you’re dazed and confused, blame it on the Bossa Nova.
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 