Published by Harper-Collins, “Storm’s A-Comin’” chronicles Mr. Woolsey’s life as an extreme weather-chaser as he criss-crosses Canada in search of high pressure systems as well as low pressure systems. Here’s what critics and peers are saying:

“‘Storm’s A-Comin’” is an absolute must-read if you’ve got a face, brain and balls.”
-Andrew Menzies

“This is totally a book.”
-James Marsden (X-Men 2)

“The cover is nice.”
-Neil Young (acclaimed Canadian singer-songwriter speaking about another publication)

“The paper is of cheap quality. If you add beeswax, you can roll marijuana cigarettes with it. Fuck off Dorothy, I’m on the phone!”
Terry Joseph Wharburton (bobandandrew.com Podcast Producer)

We are proud to present chapter 16 in its entirety.

Chapter 16: Night Falls

It had been two days since Hurricane Marcus touched down in rural New Brunswick. Dr. Edith Harding sent a frantic early-morning email requesting immediate help. In my haste I forgot to don my long johns. As I sat on that red-eye flight to the Dieppe airport, I mused that the error could lead to my downfall.

Edith was a brute of a woman: six feet tall, two-eighty, two-ninety, maybe even three hundred pounds of Anglo-Saxon woman. She was however lean and muscular, with an eight-pack of abs and forearms that could rip your dick clean off. “Brick shit-house” doesn’t even begin to describe her, whom with a rattle in the saddle was inevitable. It was a common occurrence, both hurricanes in the maritime region of the great nation of Canada, as well as Edith’s penchant to jump my bones immediately after a storm had passed. Our relationship parallelled the gale force winds we both lusted for. This was a fact I reminded myself of as we touched down in Dieppe; a city which I can only describe as vaguely resembling Tehran, though abundantly white.

I wondered if I had made a mistake some years ago as a young lad at meteorology school. Buxom, proud, and drunk, I took Edith on as a project, for at the time I had never been with an older woman. She was kind, forgiving and above all else, a teacher in the lessons of fucking. But father time had not been kind to Edith; the scars on her face reminded the both of us of a dozen chased storms. A dozen chased dreams. And one terrible international incident.

Nipping at over-salted cashews and cursing the airline’s lack of an in-flight moving picture, I thought back to the last time I saw Edith. The perils of the situation far outweighed the night of passion that followed.

October 1996. A boat of Tamil Tigers had landed north of the 49th parallel. I was paged to investigate, an obvious mistake as I had no diplomatic or educational background dealing with jungle terrorism. I knew that whoever made the call mistook my name on the Canadian Nation Registry of Emergency Response Technicians and Advisors (CNRERTA) for that of Robert James Wolski, a renowned scholar of civil disputes. Nevertheless I was up for a challenge, eager to prove to I was loyal to parliament.

She met me at the dock, hair damp from a light rain. Or maybe she was sweating profusely. Either way, it was nice to see a familiar face. She made a joke about the weather. It wasn’t funny, though I forced a grunt as I turned my attention to the black man standing nearby: Col. Hal McMaster, former Navy SEAL and current MENSA member, was charged with the task of leading an attack team onto the vessel in which the Tamils were camped. Col. McMaster feared they were ready to breach our shores at a moment’s notice, and he wanted me to document the siege. I had to think quickly to convince the Colonel that I was indeed Robert Wolski, 57 year old terrorism expert with a lisp and bad hip. Edith caught on to my ruse immediately, and I though I always thought of her as kind of a mongol, she didn’t break my cover.

Col. McMaster gave me a rifle: an M16 semi-automatic with a laser sight and 16x scope. I nearly wet myself. Perhaps my dream of committing murder without consequence was about to come true.

What happened next is a source of controversy among diplomats and political leaders. But I was there. I tasted the sweat, the blood. All I can do is tell you what I saw. And believe me, bub. I saw a God damn lot.

As soon as my feet dropped down from the circling helicopter’s rappel rope, I had to cower behind a drum of what I imagine contained some type of motor oil or cooking oil, as its smell was divine. Col. McMaster ordered smoke be deployed, and I watched, caressing my rifle, as the boat engulfed in fog. I could hear the footsteps. The shouting in another language. Shots range out. But I couldn’t SEE anything. Col. McMaster’s ALPHA TEAM leader Sgt. Victor Vicneiskcykiwei called out to fire at will. I stood up. I charged. Shouting curse words and spitting excrement from the tobacco chew I enjoyed at the time, I hoped I’d be home to see mum again. Things went black.

I awoke in a hospital bed, Edith at my side. I was handcuffed, morphine drip beeping like the sound of a thousand rainbows. I told Edith we had to leave immediately, as I was certain- whatever my actions- that the Gulag would surely be after me. I never trusted Euros. She obliged, using her brute strength to snap the cuffs clean off of me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t instantly aroused. It was then I noticed the fresh cuts on her face.

“Edith, what the Christ happened to your mug?” I sipped a last bite of morphine straight from the IV, threw on my trousers and began looking for a place to piss.

“Knife fight, my lovely,” she turned away, ashamed. “Do you still love me?”

I gave her a hard look and made a mental note to subtly suggest plastic surgery at some point in the future. A lot of surgery.

We went to a motel on the wrong side of town. All I wanted to do was sleep and think of a way out. But Edith seduced me with prescription painkillers and moonshine. We made love passionlessly. Like two robots. Back and forth. Swaying in the moonlight that crept in from the dirty motel window.

I felt nothing.

Final approach. Dieppe is on the horizon.

The rain was swaying sideways. After a sip, I tightened the top on my flask of double-distilled whiskey, said a prayer to a God I know is dead and rearranged my lower extremities.

Hurricane Marcus was going to be a motherfucker.

(“Bob Woolsey: Storm’s A-Comin” is available in paperback December 16th at all Coles, Chapters, and Shell gas stations across the pacific northwest.)

Happy birthday, Bob! You’re a real son of a gun!

Today I am twenty-four years old. Older than Super Nintendo, younger than the World Trade Towers. 

I’ve got more years on me than Mickey Rourke’s chin, but less than Cher’s tits.

Twenty-four years. Woopity doo.

I burst through the vagina at exactly 4:44 PM, February 16th, 1985 (consult your Almanacs). I was greasy and irey: thespians will recognize this as foreshadowing. A welcomed changed from months in the womb, I was a stand-out example of what a baby should be.  What a baby can be.

Did you bring a coat? Good, cause I’m about to take you on a journey.

Did you know: Everyone has a birthday. Even you.

So it’s your birthday: Who gives a shit?

Right. Birthdays, rather the celebration and promotion of one’s own birthday, is tacky, pathetic and sad. However I do believe and try very hard to make other people’s birthdays special. Last year I was an accessory to planning Bob Woolsey’s surprise party. I often send cards to my sister on her birthday. These are prime examples of my charity. I am a philanderer.

I’m really good withbirthday cards. Like, exceptional. I can tickle your funny-bone and touch your heart all with the same hand motion. My old standbyby is buying a card unrelated to a birthday- bat mitzvah, pet death- and crossing out select words in the card message so that it is hilarious and vaguely birth-related. Other times I’ll make a card by hand with crayons and construction paper, as a developmentally disabled child would.

If you have a birthday and a mailing address, I will send you a card: email andrew@bobandandrew.com. I also give relationship advice and Vegas over/unders for NCAA basketball. Do NOT take my advice.

24 Years Old

James Dean died at 24. He was a famous actor (a.k.a. “factor”) because he was young and attractive like Billy Crudup or Emile Hirsch. I think he was also Howard Dean’s grandfather. Or Jimmy Dean’s brother. Did he make sausages? I don’t know and frankly don’t give half a fuck.

The Notorious B.I.G. also died when he was 24. He was shot, and if memory serves me it had something to do with Tupac or Puff Daddy or Tupac and Puff Daddy.  The B.I.G. died in 1997. In 1997, I was 12. Weird!

I was born in the year of our Lord, 1985. I don’t remember much about the 80s, except that my dad had a beard and Jimmy Page-like hair that probably led to him bedding a women, a.k.a. my mother. My dad is my inspiration for my 2009 “No New Haircuts” Policy, though I strive to look like 1960s Neil Young. Look at that magnificent man.

(Editor’s note: Andrew has since gotten a haircut and disappointed his father immensely.)

During the eighties, in addition to pooping in a bag and being fed by hand, I found it difficult to reach things in high places. That is my collective knowledge of that decade. We’ll move on.

Life Lessons

While I may not possess the gumption of say a 52 year old or 71 year old, I have, in my brief years, amassed some knowledge that I feel is worthsharing. And since creating a humorous list is the easiest way to wrap up a blog, I leave you with:

“Andrew’s Seventeen Life Lessons: Volume One”

1. Wear socks. Always wear socks.
2. If in doubt, go with the Olive Garden.
3. Beer is a suitable meal replacement if you drink two or more.
4. Do not take your pants off until someone else in the room has already done so.
5. Eat your vegetables. They make you strong so you can fight.
6. Do not underestimate the power of a good sandwich.
7. Drunk dialing = Bad idea
8. Batman does not exist. Do not invest in a bat-signal.
9. Never pass the dutchie on the right hand side.
10. At best racism can only seldom break a tense social situation.
11. If you can build a good snow fort, you will make it through elementary school.
12. If you’re around a whole bunch of people who like cats, do not exclaim your disdain for cats.
13. You’re not a man until you take a puck to the unprotected stomach, arm, leg, back, shin, buttocks, hand or face.
14. Any argument about music (especially with the female species) is not worth having.
15. The c-word is to be used sparingly if at all around women.
16. Invest in a good hat.
17. Anyone who quotes movies in everyday conversation is probably a rancid cunt.

I’m going to spend my special day doing all of the things I enjoy: I’ll go for a walk, eat a sandwich, stare longingly at the Burrard Inlet while lamenting my failures… I’ll probably catch a movie too.

Happy birthday, everybody. See you next year.