“Babies don’t need vacations…

…so why do I always see them at the beach?” One of my favourite Steven Wright lines. It’s fun to take the little ones to the beach on a hot day. And, yes, the laws of probability suggest that at some point you will probably have to change their diaper. But, riddle me this one, Mama June: At Birch Cove Park you are never farther than 100 yards from a garbage can—so WHYTHEFUCKINTHENAMEOFALLTHAT’SHOLY would you leave leave little HoneyPooPoo’s steaming nappy on the grass instead of disposing of it PROPERLY?

What do think—there’s valet service there? Are the ShitValkyries going to swoop down and carry it away to CrapValhalla? Is Vishnu going to appear in a lotus of magic flame and re-incarnate the neatly wrapped package into the next higher level of consciousness—a lawyer or accountant? Or do you suppose that the same man who delivers the enchanted benefit cheques also picks up after you and yours?

It’s a lovely park with a great beach enjoyed by a whole bunch of people. That recent Blue Flag it was awarded is not an invitation to unevolved pond life to come and ruin it. Every time I go there, I pick up a handful of other people’s crap (figurative, NOT LITERAL) on my way out. I draw the line at touching faeces. In case you haven’t been following current events Canada IS a signatory to the U.N.Convention Banning ShitMines. If you are aware enough to tell that your hellspawn needs a change, and concerned enough to secure the inert I.E.D. with its adhesive straps, there is nothing—BSOFUCKINGLUTELY nothing—preventing you from waddling to the nearest receptacle and tossing it away. Along with your chip bags, pop bottles and cigarette packs. Evolve, or wake the fuck up! —Captain Planet’s a Pussy, The Colonel is a much meaner Motherscratcher

This article appears in Jul 4-10, 2013.