Saint John, New Brunswick
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“The drugs had once again started to kick in, when we looked at one another and asked aloud, Where the Hell is the strip with all the casinos?”
Saint John is an industrial cesspool located near a stretch of the Trans-Canada Highway called New Brunswick. Saint John is notable for its large number of call centers and for the highest concentration of bad odors north of New Jersey. Saint John is a wholly owned subsidiary of Irving Oil.
In the beginning, there was only fog, and some run-down wood frame housing. Suddenly, the Irving family descended from the sky. They set down the foundations for a corporate empire revolving around high-emission industries such as oil and pulp and paper. Not long after, Bernard Lord and others were elected to manage the city, but lost sight of it in the perennial clouds of fog and sulfur dioxide. Nothing has happened since. The latest survey of Saint John showed that 90% of the population is Blackorean and hillbillies from Alabama who are descendants of the Loyalists.
Saint John was once invaded and briefly occupied by forces from The Cape Breton Liberation Army, but they left a short while later when they sobered up and realized the value of what they had captured.
Saint John does somehow have a booming tourism industry, which is based mostly around reversing falls. However, tourists generally only visit once, as the falls are really a swirl of over saturated piss water that changes direction every six hours. The Reversing Falls restaurant is an attraction in itself. This is not because of its famous view of the Saint John river. It is more an attraction for scientists and doctors amazed by the amount of food poisoning cases that come out of the restaurant every day. Health inspectors would shut the restaurant down, but they are all inbred in Saint John.
The loyalist man is another attraction. He was a giant godzilla-like monster sent by the British Crown in August of 1746 to destroy the commonwealth's most horrible city, but succumbed to its pollution and was encased in cement by Saint John's residents. He now towers above the Falls restaurant, fist raised in anger against the city he could not destroy.
Cruise ships visit Saint John often; the large influx of seniors from the boats often exhaust the city's near-endless supply of souvenir pins and chartered trolley tours. With their Hawaiian shirts and pasty white legs, the tourists often wonder why the Hell the cruise ship has dropped them off here. They are usually heard muttering "This isn't Jamaica!" and "Crap, they tricked me!"
One of the most often asked (and ignored) questions at the local tourist information booth is "How do I get out of this God forsaken dump"? Local residents are often heard, with great pride, (and often pomp and circumstance added for dramatic effect) pointing out to tourists that one of the most interesting features of the city is that it has absolutely no interesting or otherwise distinguishing features.
The current residents of Saint John are either too old, too young, or too poor to move to Alberta. Some eventually manage to escape to nearby Moncton, though they run the risk of being hit by moose and trucks bound for Nova Scotia along the way.
edit The Harbour
The large vat of beer locals call the Saint John harbour may look inviting at first glance, but any habitant will be quick to point out that characters like Stompin' Tom Connors, Elsie Wayne, and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles emerged from its depths. The Saint John River regularly runs upstream in order to avoid the harbour.
Elsie Wayne, in fact, is a man, an escapee from a mental institution in central Ecuador. His real name is El Seaswine. He accepts letters at the post office's General Delivery window using the alias Chaz Bono.
Saint John is home to over 14 million distinct nasty smells, each occupying its own part of the city. For those who enjoy the stench of dead fish, uptown is a veritable Disneyland. The West Side offers a magnificent blend of aromas from the pulp mill and Moosehead Breweries. On the East one can take in the ambience of the oil refinery. And the North End Saint John bears the unmistakable perfume of basement-dwellers living with their Mom on welfare.
- The Sea Dogs
Saint John's juinor hockey team, the Sea Dogs, are the town's fourth least embarrassing component, behind fog, sewage, and stench. The Sea Dogs are aptly named, as watching them play hockey greatly resembles watching dogs drown. Their home games take place in Harbour Station, and because of the arena's proximity to the actual harbour, fans are given complimentary anti-contamination suits and gas masks upon entering. The Sea Dogs once had a charming mascot, Splash, who was unfortunately beaten to death after giving one too many high-fives.
The highlight of any Sea Dogs home game is undoubtedly the "chuck-a-puck" ritual. Throughout the game, fans are permitted to purchase a puck from one of many vendors in the building. Upon the arrival of the first intermission, a virgin is brought out and tied to a pole in the middle of the ice surface. The fans then unload all their anger and frustration, pelting the virgin with thousands of pucks, believing that spilling the blood of an innocent will grant them a winning season.
- The Mill Rats
Saint John residents who are too Ebonic to fully appreciate junior hockey can take in Mill Rats games. The Mill Rats also play at Harbour Stadium (which is renamed Rogers Arena on those dates) and are a charter member of the Rogers Basketball League of Canada. Canada has a Basketball League because it does not yet rate a Rogers Smack-Down Wrestling League. The team was named the Mill Rats following a Name That Team competition in which the team's not-yet fans stubbornly refused management's preferred name, the Handy Cell Phones. Tickets are always available at the front desk of Rogers Communications, though it helps if one calls ahead on his Rogers phone. Prices are affordable, but additional taxes and fees apply and a two-year commitment is required.
Saint John's constant damp and fogginess is a perennial attraction for tourists who have grown bored of their respective home towns and want to understand that things could be worse.