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!

Directed by friend and frequent collaborator Darren Borrowman, “Do Something With Your Life” is a full-length comedy written by Andrew and produced by Bob (and gentleman Keith Opatovsky). Bob also acted as story-editor, which is an industry term that you shouldn’t concern yourself with.

It’s been a long road navigating outlines, script pages, pre-production, art meetings, gear-haulings, energy drinking, regular drinking, bro-mantic hugs, rampant cocaine abuse and the occasional full-on fist fight.

This week, Bob and Andrew discuss the process as well as recall their time spent in the wilderness some years ago with Terry Joseph Wharburton. Right click to download or listen in your browser below!

You can now subscribe to our podcast on iTunes and have it directly downloaded to your iPod, iPhone, iPad or iThermos. Wow!

Click here for details http://ow.ly/2tNc9.

Terry was many things to many people. He was a father, a lover, a husband, a defendant, and an old man. Terry had a passion for finishing, biplaning, Italian fusion cooking as well as mixed martial arts, women and the drink. He will be missed by many, revered by few.

Click below to hear Bob and Andrew’s thoughts and memories of their long-time podcast producer and cocaine dealer.

We apologize about the quality of the recording, as we were without a producer.

After the jump, there’s an unfinished interview Andrew was conducing with Terry upon the time of his death.

Terry Joseph Wharburton produces the Bob & Andrew Show podcast. At Christmas, we interviewed Terry about his disdain for the holiday season. Today, we focus on Terry’s yearning to be a motivational speaker. We decided the only way to sort out this frustrating and frankly baffling revelation was to sit down and ask Terry flat out why he thought he had anything of relevance to share with society.

This is one man’s story.

bobandandrew.com: Thanks for coming down, Terry.

Terry: I appreciate the boot shining.

bobandandrew.com: This really is quaint, isn’t it? You don’t see a lot of old-time shoe shiners around anymore.

Terry: What the hell does “quaint” me? Are you calling me a faggot?

bobandandrew.com: Calm down, Terry.

Terry: Okay.

bobandandrew.com: So, the other day you mentioned your aspirations to speak in front of children.

Terry: I want to show the youth of the world what can happen when a man has nothing to lose.

bobandandrew.com: Do you think you have the right qualifications to become a motivational speaker?

Terry: I got a mouth and a suit, don’t I?

bobandandrew.com: I don’t think it’s that simple. Most motivational speakers have degrees or life experience that would make sharing their story beneficial to others. As far as we understand it, you have none of those things. You’re liar and a thief. You’ve been divorced three times. You verbally abused your developmentally disabled son.  You crashed an airplane and sent money to the Taliban. We’ve seen you attempt to set fire to a hospital. Terry, you’re not a good person.

Terry: Watch the heel.

bobandandrew.com: Terry?

Terry: Oh, sorry, I was talking to this coloured fellow.

bobandandrew.com: The boot shiner? He’s Portuguese, and that’s not even close to the correct term.

Terry: Portuguese? No shit. I had chow mein for lunch.

bobandandrew.com: Alright, foregoing your lack of experience or moral compass, if given the chance, what would you want to teach the youth of our nation?

Terry: Practical things. Trades.

bobandandrew.com: Like welding and carpentry?

Terry: I would be a great teacher. My father taught me how to whittle. I made a flute. It didn’t work too well.

bobandandrew.com: Your father died when you were eleven, right?

Terry: Mom shot him in the leg. Papa died of an infection a short time later. He was, after all, a Christian scientist.

bobandandrew.com: Did you have any role models growing up? Perhaps a teacher you admired, or an uncle?

Terry: Uncle Jeff went to jail for rape when I was nine. I quit school a short time later.

bobandandrew.com: Are those two incidents related?

Terry: (long pause) No.

bobandandrew.com: Who is Sol McGuinty?

Terry: My Jew lawyer.

bobandandrew.com: I don’t think that’s the correct term.

Terry: Alright. My Jew barrister. Anyway, he’s an alright Jew.

bobandandrew.com: Terry–

Terry: Hang on, I’m getting a page.

bobandandrew.com: You have a pager?

Terry: I need to take this.

Terry leaves the room. He returns seventeen minutes later, dripping with sweat and reeking of whiskey.

bobandandrew.com: Terry–

Terry: What?!

bobandandrew.com: Shall we continue?

Terry: I don’t give a God Damn.

bobandandrew.com: Okay. We were discussing your–

Terry: I need a pussy.

bobandandrew.com: What?

Terry: Been a long time. A long… long time.

bobandandrew.com: Terry, let’s call it a day. We’ll finish this up next week.

Terry: Sounds good. I’m flying my biplane to the island Friday night. Gonna see about a lady.

bobandandrew.com: Well, have a safe flight.

Terry: Thank you. You know, Adam–

bobandandrew.com: Andrew. It’s Andrew.

Terry: Whatever. You and Roger are two of the finest young gentlemen I’ve ever known. You listen to my stories, you give me employment, and when we go to bars, you don’t Bogart my tang.

bobandandrew.com: Yeah, well, don’t worry about it.

Terry: I will not worry about it so long as I have friends like you. Give daddy a hug.

bobandandrew.com: Back the fuck off, Terry!

Terry: Did I ever tell you boys about the time I had sex with twins?

bobandandrew.com: No, you didn’t.

Terry: Me and her brother double-teamed her for a good fifteen minutes.

bobandandrew.com: God damn it, Terry.

Terry: Fuck you! Don’t judge me, Adam.

Add Terry as a friend on Facebook and leave a comment on his wall. Celebrate the man.

http://www.facebook.com/thehandsomebiplaner

However, not everyone loves Christmas.

Terry Joseph Wharburton, producer for the weekly podcast hammer “The Bob & Andrew Show”, recently blogged about Christmas.  While nothing remotely interesting was said, Bob and I were both intrigued by Terry’s under-laying disdain for the holiday.

I sat down with Terry to get his true feelings on the Christmas season.

bobandandrew.com: Thanks for doing this, Terry.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: My pleasure. I have no where else to be.

bobandandrew.com: Your blog was pathetic and morose. Why do you act the way you do? Are you suicidal? Do you hate Christmas?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: No, I never said–

bobandandrew.com: You obviously have a deep depression about the holiday season. Does Santa make you sad?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: I used to dress up as Santa on Christmas morning for my kids.

bobandandrew.com: Really?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Yeah, a couple times in the 1980s. My second son, the regular one, he really liked to hug Santa. I got jealous of that mall prick so I bought a suit from Sally Ann. He loved it. He would always run up and grab my boot straps, shouting “Santa I love you!”. I’d let him sit on my lap as he opened his gifts. Really loved that red hat. Heck, I’d keep the suit on most of the day. One time I had turkey dinner in it. My son started to ask “Where’s papa?”, so I went into the bathroom and changed back into my overalls and slippers. When I came back in the room he started to cry because Santa had left.

bobandandrew.com: What did you other kids think of it?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: My eldest, Greta, she always saw through it. She tried to make me break character, asking me complex questions about sleighs and reindeer and such. If I didn’t knock her around a bit she would have ruined it for Josh and Rico. Rico was the retarded one.

bobandandrew.com: That’s not the correct term, Terry.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: It’s on his birth certificate. Do you want to see it?

bobandandrew.com: No.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Can I get something to eat? You guys promised me a meal.

bobandandrew.com: After the interview, Terry.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Okay.

bobandandrew.com: So when did your wife leave you?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: 1993. Well, the most recent wife.

bobandandrew.com: Was that at Christmas?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: No, the second week of July. I tossed a firecracker into her bed while she was sleeping. Didn’t much care for that gag.

bobandandrew.com: You could have seriously hurt her.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: (laughing) Yeah, but it was fuckin’ funny at the time!

bobandandrew.com: I don’t understand how that’s at all funny.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: You had to be there.

bobandandrew.com: Don’t you like presents?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Sure.

bobandandrew.com: What about snow?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: My truck runs well in the snow.

bobandandrew.com: Are you paying attention?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: I fancy myself a man of God.

bobandandrew.com: I want to switch gears and ask you about Ringers.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: No, I don’t talk about Alberta.

bobandandrew.com: What happened at Ringers Tavern in 1982?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: No.

bobandandrew.com: Terry, come on. This is between friends.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: I will NEVER talk about that.  We’re done here!

bobandandrew.com: If you leave now, you don’t get your sandwich.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Really?

bobandandrew.com: Answer the question and we’ll buy you a BLT.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: And a Coke?

bobandandrew.com: No drink.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Deal.

bobandandrew.com: So, Terry, it’s 1982. You’ve been tending bar at Calgary’s Ringers Tavern for about two years. Fresh off the farm, young man in a big city. Must have been exciting.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Yeah… yeah.

bobandandrew.com: What happened?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Well, shit, I never thought I’d have to talk about this, but… Christmas eve, 1982. Ringers has this annual karaoke contest the night before Christmas. Just carols. Big turn out, lots of door prizes. Anyways, we’re coming up on last call, and this big meat truck, brick shithouse son of a gun is fuckered. Really drunk, falling on his ass. His whole party- college kids, mostly- are having a ball, laughing him and egging him on. Up on stage, this sweet little thing is singing “Oh Come All Ye Faithful”. She had range, but no emotion. Either way, he gets the idea that she needs a duet. So he stumbles up on stage. I’m sitting behind the bar pouring double whiskey ryes for Old Jack Swinagin, a real meat truck, brick shithouse son of a–

bobandandrew.com: Terry, you already described what I assume is the principle antagonist in that same exact way. It’s poor storytelling.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: I don’t know what a lot of those words mean. (long pause) So he gets on stage and grabs the girl, swings her about. She’s scared. He’s just trying to kiss her. His table loves it. Couple of other guys get up on the stage and they start passing her back and forth. Can’t stand for this, I thought. I go under the bar for my knife, but low and behold someone had tossed it in the dumpster the night before. How I knew this fact, I forget exactly. Knife wasn’t there is my God damn point. I know I had to do something. Can’t let a sweet girl get pushed around like that. I roll up my sleeves, tighten my apron, and get ready to dance. I climb on stage and tell the three guys to get to moving. The girl manages to run off, right to Old Jack Swinagin, a real meat truck, brick shithouse son of a–

bobandandrew.com: Terry!

Terry Joseph Wharburton: The first guy, the biggest guy, he grabs my collar. Asks if I’d like to dine in hell. And I’m thinking, “What does that mean?”. So I spit in his face. The other two kick over the karaoke machine. The music stops. The whole bar looks at us. The big guy punches me right in the jaw. I hit the ground. They all start kicking at me. A couple of regulars, Brent McCreary, Bastard Johnny, Sue-Kimo and Old Jack Swinagin rush the stage. They start pulling the college boys off, and an all out bar fight erupts. It was fast as lightning, as suddenly a man in the back attacked and they all collapsed. As the song goes. Irregardless, it’s a good thirty, forty minute fight. And back in those days, in 1982, it took the Mounties a long ass while to come out to a bar call. The place clears out, I sweet talk the cops, and we close down Riggers after one fuck of a rumble.

bobandandrew.com: That’s quite the story, Terry, but it doesn’t seem like a simple bar fight is enough to make a man truly hate Christmas.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Yeah but the next day those college kids and a bunch of their friends came over to my apartment and sodomized me with a broom handle.

bobandandrew.com: Wh… what?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: And that’s why I hate Christmas. Can I get that sandwich now?