Being for the benefit of Mr. Kope

I was finally going to give a life update on here, but I have to change the topic to something important that’s leaving Canada soon. We’re talking bigger than Quebec; we’re talking Jared.

I’m supposed to be making apple crisp right now for family Christmas, but it can wait a while as I rant a little about my extended family.

Born in the city town hamlet of Tofield, Alberta, poor Yorick was raised in the cabbage of Edmonton. He learned three things there: how to play slo-pitch, how to get right dickered, and how to do both with success.

In just one short year he overcame the odds and learned:

  • How to escort himself out of the bar without being in a choke hold.
  • That peer pressure works on me 99% of the time if you stick to your guns.
  • If he waits five minutes after I get my food at F&S pub before he steals my fries, he’ll avoid burning his mouth.
  • Never make a bet with me despite my intimate knowledge of every mainstream sport (I picked the Ravens for the AFC championship and Superbowl because I remembered watching them win in 2001 and Ray Lewis was still playing. I know, right? Logic) (see snow bank picture, bottom left).
  • To never suggest the idea of McDoubles unless he’s prepared for a white man’s Harold and Kumar night.
  • To never assume that I can navigate from one end of the driveway to the other without ending up in the suburbs.
  • That if he leaves for Africa at 6am and doesn’t wake up Rob who is in the very next room, he can avoid one hell of a meaningful handshake bear hug and praise for being a stellar human being (this is still a touchy subject as it happened only four hours ago).

Now if you ask me, that’s all you need to get out of a master’s degree. However, this guy is one of the few grad students I’ve met since last September who I believe actually loves what he does, and actively pursues it outside of his program. If you ever want to know what a passionate person with #feelings is like, look this guy up. If you ever want to know what Morning Hands are, or how to wheel with a moustache, mullet, and a fanny pack, look this guy up, then look him down, then look him up and down; he’s a stud.

Some precautions to the folks of Mozambique, where he’ll be residing for the next year:

  • He doesn’t get hangovers. You cannot win, sorry, but I’ve tried.
  • Get used to waking up way too early to the sounds of “Heyy Buuuddy, whatchup to?” and a loud blender. Oh my God, that blender.
  • Do not ask any ignorant questions about First Nations or kids in sport, unless you want to learn that cartoons characters aren’t the only ones who can steam from the ears. Luckily you have two or three chances to switch topics while the condensation builds.
  • The first 15 minutes of every morning are reserved exclusively for pooping. Don’t disrupt that. This is the only thing that makes him just a regular guy.
  • Use the shower whenever you want, he won’t be needing it.
  • When you see his shoulder twitch, you have two options: you can hide out at the bar, or you can hit the stage and “dahnce” and watch the happiest face you’ve seen bounce across the dance floor pissing off boyfriends and two-stepping till two-thirty.

When this beauty gets back, the majority of our crew will be gone from Ottawa and spread out around the world, so it’s a little more than just being gone for a long weekend. Otherwise I’d beak him about tight pants and leave it at that, but this deserved a little honesty.

So one final word to the man, the beauty, and the legend:


And one final piece of advice to the residents of Mozambique:

If he ever tells you to look at the gum that he just sat on,


We’ll miss ya man.