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George H. Thausanij,
Michael Terry is a best selling writer/therapist who is tired of his high profile life. He decides to take a couple of days off and go to his ranch. That is when he comes with the idea to use it as a place for troubled teens. The teens would live on the ranch, do all sorts of chores, and learn the value of honesty and friendship. Written by
Pat McCurry <firstname.lastname@example.org>
This show really is Canada, isn't it? Not just Canada, it's our gritty underbelly. I remember my days as a scamp of a criminal in the mean streets of downtown Sarnia. Oh, there were days when I'd stay out well past 8PM with no regard for the streetlights being on. I'd prowl the streets and sometimes spit if no one were around. That's right, spit! On the street! And, from time to time, I'd be heard to utter a vulgarity of a nature even harsher than what is about to follow - "crap." That's right, I know a few words worse than crap, and dang it, I would say them. As a free spirited Canadian punk, I even enjoyed it. Though later I felt awfully guilty and would steal some money to give to a charitable cause.
Now, what has this to do with Winston Rekert and his Neon Riding School? Just this - I related to this show. I longed for this show to be real. Deep inside my rebel heart, I wanted to know that the cure to all my ills lay in a man in need of a haircut and his shabby farm full of hooligans. How my intestines clenched with joyous exuberance every time another youth on the fringe was saved from damnation after shoveling manure (or dung, if you will) for an hour. "Let me shovel your manure, Winston!" I would shout from my stained recliner. But alas, Winston never heard my cries.
Still, just knowing that shoveling manure was a fix for juvenile delinquency and various other hokey things was enough to turn my life around. I sought out rats at first, then a stray siamese cat and every day I dutifully picked up their manure and threw it away in a mostly sanitary fashion. And sure enough, by year's end, I no longer wanted to spit, to cuss, to play Jacks for nickles or steal the pants from hobos. I was changed. I became a pizza boy, married my third grade teacher and started my own quail farm. Life is good now.
So today, I tell you this, Neon Rider can save you too. Sit. Sit my friend and watch. Open your heart to a shovel full of manure and a new outlook on life. Bless you, Winston Rekert. Bless you. And never once question how this dumbed down view of real life problems that repeated itself over and over in a simplistic, formulaic fashion isn't still on.
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