The Science of St. Nick

The hours are drawing near, when jolly ol' St. Nick will once again make his historical intercontinental trek, delivering toys to all the good boys and girls, as well as lumps of coal to those who fell short of the list this year.

During his travels, Santa Claus is expected to consume a minimum of one to two cookies or pieces of fudge or cake, per household, washing it down with a glass of cold milk or warm cocoa.  And judging from the modern schematics I've been able to commandeer for this article, Santa will also be consuming mugs and mugs of the tasty chocolate beverage along his travels.  However, cake, cookies, and cocoa cannot stay with someone over the course of one evening.  The chocolaty arts are notorious for quickly passing through, like "poop through a goose".  Although many of the features of Santa's sled have been upgraded to accommodate for modern technology, I fail to see any sort of lavatory system on the sleigh.  What happens if Santa Claus has to poop or pee?  Then what?

Definitely a man of Santa's considerable girth, would hardly be a welcomed in using the common commode used in most households throughout the world.  I've heard stories of mere mortals of larger proportions sitting on similar lavatories, only to hearing a creak and a groan before finding themselves seated flat on the floor surrounded by broken porcelain, spraying water and fresh turds.  Not to mention, it's always awkward having to request the use of someone's bathroom, especially when it's implied that you need to drop an stinky shit.  No matter how generous Santa might be, forking over a new iPod or big screen TV.

Due to an ever-growing list of deliveries, St. Nicholas would hardly have the time to make pit stops at every convenience store and gas station within 1000 miles of one another.  First you'd need to find ample parking for the sled and eight tiny reindeer.  Not an easy task at the best of times, nevertheless when your fighting off the urge to shit your pants.  I find it most difficult myself, to pull into my garage and line up my truck perfectly, when I'm "turtling".  Also, the fact that the sleigh hasn't any doors or security of any kind on it, it'd be hard fought to go into any facility and concentrate on droppin' a deuce, when you're preoccupied about some yahoo, bent on revenge for receiving a lump o' coal in his stocking last year, stealing the sleigh and going on a wild joyride, al a "Ferris Bueller's Day Off".  The only saving grace to that scenario not playing out, is the fact that 99% of the world's population aren't able to name off all eight of the reindeer's names.  

However, because much of the world is covered with countries and cultures who barely understand the concept of indoor plumbing, Santa is unable to address his fecal needs in a very private sort of way.  Therefore, the jolly elf, must take more substantial measures in evacuating his bladder and bowels.  This is where the "Fisherman Maneuver" is put into effect.  While travelling between metropolitan areas, Santa is now forced to drop trow and hang his ass over the side of the sleigh.  This is not an easily performed feat.  Much mathematics is necessary in conducting such a plan.

In the hours preceding Santa's take-off from the North Pole, there are a special team of elves who must conduct field tests in order to accomplish the most thrust from the eight reindeer used to power the sleigh.  You must consider not only all the gifts, but the food for feeding the reindeer throughout the night.  Enough food must be supplied as having the reindeer lose their energy halfway through the night is not something that bears repeating.  Not like that fateful night back in '03, when the reindeers lost altitude and came crashing down, with the sleigh and Santa in tow, onto the mean streets of Bagdad.  Thank God for the U.S. Marines who came to Santa's rescue and who handed over their rations and got Santa and his team back on schedule.

Other rations to be considered is the reservoir that houses the Stardust which assists the reindeer in their job of propelling the sleigh.  And we mustn't forget the Fat Man himself, Santa Claus.  The man in the last decade or two, has really laid on the pounds.  It's not like the good old days for Santa, when he'd pack on a couple of pounds on Christmas Eve, then spend the other 364 days of the year, working out to bring himself back down to a respected competing weight.  These days, Santa can be found with his fat ass plopped firmly down in front of his 70" big screen watching episodes of "Diner's, Drive-In's & Dives" on the Food Network.  It's because Santa "semi-retired" a few decades back, outsourcing the overseeing aspect of his job to Bernard, one of his faithful elves who's been by Santa's side since nearly the beginning.

So much consideration is necessary, if Santa is wanting to swing his fat ass over the side of the sleigh.  Not to mention some industrial-strength safety harnesses.  Something fitting enough to restrain and angry moose is more than suffice to keep St. Nick's fat ass from plummeting over the side and straight to his ultimate death below.  In addition to this task however, more science is needed to keep the crap from flying back into the sleigh.

I'm sure we've all been afflicted with the misfortune of driving down the street when out of nowhere ya cough.  And it's not a dry cough, but a wet one, met with not only a little bit of sputum, but a nasty nodule of snot that has freed itself from your inner most sanctum and now finds itself planted disgustingly on your palate.  Just like a hard-nosed trucker, you roll down your window and when you believe no one to be looking, you evacuate that snotty fragment from your mouth.  Only later, do you realize that the back draft of air propelled the once spongy morsel into the side of your vehicle, where it streaked and rolled it's way backward before finally coming to rest in a freeze-dried state for all who pass by to see.  Now imagine if you're Santa Claus, who's just taken a monster shit off the side of his regal flying sleigh, only to stop all little Emma's or tiny Tim's to discover that their is a gargantuan streak of shit flared back and down the side.  Fecal matter is difficult to remove at the best of times.  In warm climate, it may appear to have been removed with a simple dousing of a water hose, but a hint of shit always comes back a day or so later.  You are never really able to totally remove shit from the surface of anything.  If you steam-cleaned a toilet plunger, no matter how clean it looked or Febreze-fresh it might smell, no one is ever truly brave enough to wear it on their head like a long narrow crown, cuz you always know that the plunger helped rid you of the triple-coiled log from last summer.

So more science is necessary to prevent the back splashing of shit and urine with ripping one out, over the side of the sleigh.  A specific maneuver is necessary which involves getting the reindeer to fly in tight circles.  This is called the "Circling The Drain Effect".  It is through this method that centrifugal force helps fling the feces from the sleigh, so as not to spray the side of the sleigh, as well as miss the reindeer.  If you thought having them run out of energy was a unfortunate event, spraying a reindeer with piss and shit, is even worse.  A groggy lethargic reindeer is one thing, but a pissed off reindeer is much worse.  While it's true the energy output is increased, the anger ratio far exceeds that and becomes erratic.

The best case scenario for Santa, would simply be to cut a hole in the seat of the sleigh.  It's a little "low-tech", but sometimes the simplest answer to a question is the greatest solution.  I believe this is called the "K.I.S.S." Effect (Keep It Simple, Stupid).  While it may be a little drafty, pinching off a loaf would be easy and quick, and because Santa flies at such a considerable altitude, there'd be no prying eyes seeing his "brown eye".  Plus, with the advent of the GPS System in his sleigh, uninhabited areas would be more readily available and no "accidents" would occur, or there'd be far less of them.

So Have Yourselves A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!  And a Safe and Happy New Year, as well...!

Public Service

I've never really been a fan of the Ford Mustang. While others around me have "ooh'd" and "aah'd" over the Ford sportster, I've idolized other sporty modes of transportation. Cadillac's have always held a special place in my heart. Not the cookie cutter ones of the 1970's, mind you, that were basically Chevy Impala's with Caddy emblems on them. Those sucked ass, but the classics of the 1950's and 60's, as well as some of the modern classics of the 90's and new millennium.

Mustang's though, never really appealed to me. Granted some of the ones from the late 1960's and early 70's, until about 1972 or 3, were pretty cool, but I've never fancied myself as buying one. Even the modern Mustangs with their now nostalgic features are okay, but still not something I envied.

However, I always did say, to myself and others, that if I WERE to get a Mustang, it'd have to be a convertible. There's something to be said about the topless Mustang. Just a classy look, in my opinion. So this past August, I ventured out and treated myself to a second vehicle, my beloved 2008 Honda Ridgeline, being my primary mode of transportation. I found myself, locally, a 2001 Ford Mustang convertible. It's originally a California car, purchased off the lot in Palm Springs, California. She's a beautiful cherry red, with tan leather interior and a tan top. It's only a 3.8L, which while it isn't as powerful as the V8, is still strong enough to get me into trouble with the local law enforcement, if I'm not careful. Besides. I think it's more important to look good behind the wheel of such and automobile than to look like a f*cking asshole racing about. I hate those idiots, putting everyone else's safety in jeopardy so they can "look cool".

A few moments ago, I was on Facebook, wasting time on this chilly Saturday afternoon, when I came across some Mustang photos of one of my "Facebook friends". Like most Facebook friends, I've never met this individual, nor have I ever exchanged two words with them, other than to pass off "gifts" in whatever game we both enjoy playing. So always interested in pictures from car shows around the globe, I shuffled through a few of the pictures, pausing on a couple to share my opinions of what I saw. Until I came across a smashed Mustang convertible.

The model and year looked just like my car, only this one was a deep grey in colour. Underneath the photo, a question was posed. "Have you ever been in a wreck with your Mustang?" I posted how I recently acquired my Mustang and how I don't even like to leave it unattended when I'm out and about in public. But then I was reminded of an accident I'd had when I was a teenager. An accident where I demolished a Mustang with my car.

It was a late afternoon, early evening. I was stopped at a four-way stop. Then proceeded to go. That's when the 1974 Chevy Nova that I was driving struck a Mustang II, broadside. I was barely moving, but it sent this tiny car spinning down the street, it's right side caved right the f*ck in. I panicked, as this was my first accident ever. We exchanged all the required information, but I knew that (not only was) I f*cked, but that car was going to the junk yard. Completely obliterated.

However, it was a Mustang II. Much like the one pictured above. Mustang II's are the red-headed step children of the Mustang world. An embarrassment. Something to be shunned and hidden away, tucked under the stairs, never to be acknowledged again. Therefore, I don't really feel that bad for wrecking that automobile. Sure, the blemish went on my permanent record, but driving records only go back about seven years, so that's a distant memory today, but because the Mustang II is such a huge piece of shit, I think I did the world a service rather than anything negative. So it's been a long time in the making, but "YOU'RE WELCOME, WORLD!! YOU'RE WELCOME!!!"

Have a nice day!

F*ck Bullies!!!!

Kids be getting soft these days. That's what I'm thinking. Decades of mothers and fathers coddling their kids, teaching them to be soft, rather than calloused to what life brings them. If they fall down and scrape their knee, they're babied until the bleeding stops, rather than dad calling out, "Suck it up you wimp!" The latter is how I was raised. That and a lot more.

I see in the news repeatedly how this teenager and that teenager, is turning to suicide in order to deal with bullying in school. What could be said that is SO bad, that ending your life is better than just coping with the constant scurrility.

I, myself, was bullied relentlessly in my early school years. I recall being singled out in the seventh, eighth and ninth grades, especially. Growing up, I was always a sort of scrawny little guy, and therefore a prime target for those bigger than myself. I remember one fellow, in the seventh and eighth grades, named Jimmy. He was a couple years older than the rest of us, high school age I think, and this f*cker would constantly pick on me and try to beat on me. I don't understand why that was. One time he cornered me on the playground, ready to pummel me with his fists, accusing me of "thinking I was so cool". That statement, for the time, was the furthest thing from the truth. Today, on the other hand, I KNOW I am so cool. (Just look at my hair! Damn, I look good!)

High school, presented me with entirely new challenges. Here I was, placed into a sea of adolescents much bigger and older than myself. A whole new pool of social acceptance. I can remember this one guy, a couple of grades above me, who terrorized me for my entire freshman year. Any chance he got, he'd corner me and just lay into me with the insults. I can't remember much about the f*cker, other than he had kind of a pansy mustache, one of those faggy teenage ones, and this deep-seated scowl on his face. I don't remember ever seeing him with his friends, where he'd have a smile on his face. He'd always be a step or two behind a couple other guys, until he'd see me, then his eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning, and the bullying commenced shortly after that. Midway through the school year, I found myself running late to classes, because I had to take the long way around the school, just to avoid crossing paths with that f*cking guy.

Not once, though, throughout all the hazing and bullying, did I ever think that I'd rather be dead than deal with all this shit. I don't know exactly what it took for me to "survive" the bullying. Lord knows that it wasn't that I hit a growth spurt over the summer. I didn't get that until I was eighteen years old. Far too late for any of it to matter. But looking back now, I can only think it was a couple of things that helped me to survive the taunting.

Number one, was I knew the truth. They'd say one thing, but I knew the alternative to be the truth. The goof in high school, constantly had me cornered, pushed back between a couple of lockers, towering over me calling me "a little faggot" and other similar slurs, but I always knew that I was not a gay. (He probably was, but I sure as hell was not!)

Number two, and I had to think long and hard on this one, but it makes sense. I grew up in an alcoholic family. That is, my dad was an alcoholic, the rest of us were on the receiving end of it. Today I harbour no ill-will towards my dad, recognizing the experience as Jeckyll & Hyde. When he was sober, my dad was the best. When he was drunk, which at the time was A LOT, he was a f*cking horror show. Jason Voorhees and Freddy Krueger have nothing on my dad when he was rip-snortin' drunk. And this, I believe is the other reason I survived the bullying I received at school. For I know, no matter what these small-dicked idiots could dish out on me at school, my drunk father could dish out ten times (if not more) worse abuse.

So that is my secret to success, but what about all these teenagers today, who would rather swallow a bottle of pills or eat a f*ckin' bullet, than deal with the atrocities that berate them on a daily basis. Some might argue that today's youth are faced with an entirely different era than when I was a boy. Today, there's something called "cyber-bullying", in which tech-savvy bullies take to the world wide web, and post a plethora of untruths on Facebook, Twitter and whatever other social websites there are. Well I don't buy this a a viable reason for offing one's self. Bullies take to these sites because of the anonymity involved. Why, then, can't the victims return like with like. Fight fire with fire. Do like Sean Connery said in the Untouchables. "If they bring a knife, you bring a gun. If they put one of your guys in the hospital, you put one of theirs in the morgue."

Now as I'm writing that line, I have flashbacks of Columbine and alike. I don't mean victims of bullying should bring small arms to school and open fire. That's a bullshit, p*ssy way out of things. I mean fight your oppressors with words. I personally have attacked many a person with my words, and in some instances have caused quite a turmoil. I'm still receiving mail concerning my pledge that Chewbacca from Star Wars, was gay for Han Solo, and I suspect I will continue to receive mail over that. But that's good. It means I'm always on someone's mind. The victims of bullying can do the same. Post all sorts of shit about your bully. It doesn't matter if it's true. None of the shit they're saying about you is truth (in all likelihood).

Today, there's a large movement to end bullying. A valiant effort, this is true. I don't think we will ever see the end of bullying, to be completely honest, as bullying is everywhere. Corporate America bullies the poor. Big government bullies the other parties. "The Simpsons" has been on TV for over two decades now, and nearly every week, you see poor Bart and Milhouse handing over their lunch money to the school bullies. The WWE, which I have not laid eyes upon since Wrestlemania, constantly pits one super heavyweight wrestler against a lightweight grappler. Tell me how fair it is to see a 400lb behemoth fight against another fellow who's barely 5'8"?

Bullying is everywhere. It's a global epidemic. It will never end, sadly. So we need to find other alternatives to combating it. Teachers need to be more diligent. Whenever I was cornered as a young lad, lots of teachers would pass by, but not a one ever stopped to check and see if I was okay. They'd just smile and nod and keep on their way. I think most teachers and school officials know it to be going on, but are oblivious to recognizing it when they come upon it. I think better training needs to be given to school officials and stronger consequences to those who are caught.

"A show of hands. Who here has been the victim of bullying?" a man said to a group of kids during a television program earlier. A majority of hands were raised, including his own. "Now who here has bullied other people?" No hands were raised, except his own. He, admitting that in addition to being bullied, he too had bullied others. Only then, through that honesty, did one or two hands get raised. Everyone is willing to admit they're picked on, but never want to admit to being the monster themselves. As for me. Yeah. I think it could be said, that I've bullied a couple others. I don't remember who, or what the circumstance, but I have bullied. I'm not proud of it, but it is what it is. I can only learn from it and move on.

The same goes for those who find themselves victim to bullying and ridicule. Don't f*cking kill yourself. That shit doesn't solve anything. It makes your family miserable, because they couldn't help you. It makes the bullies feel invincible because they drove you to it. What you need to do, is LIVE. Live your life. If for no other reason, but out of spite. If your oppressors "hate" you that much, think of how miserable you're going to make their shitty little lives, by living yours to the fullest. Then when your a success, you can look down your nose at them as they fill your car up with gas or give you french fries with your burger order. F*ck them.

November 29th

The date November 29th has always been an important date for me. Not only is it the day of my birth, a day that should become a mandatory day off from work and school for everyone, but because so much has occurred on November 29th, throughout the ages. Some good and albeit, some not-so-good. A lot of good and important people have been born upon this day. And from what I've read recently, a lot of people have also died on this day. However, so I hear, you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.

For instance, I read that in 1963, a Trans-Canada flight crashed 4 minutes after take-off in Montreal, Quebec, killing all 111 onboard. Not really a day for celebration. Actress Natalie Wood drowned off Catalina Island, in 1981. Much mystery surrounded the accident and the case has been recently re-opened for investigation, which many speculate is because a book has just been published on the subject and re-opening the case will boost book sales. Aren't writers just greasy, sometimes?

Actor Cary Grant died in 1982 at the age of 82. In 1984, a Korean flight disappeared near Burma, with 115 people aboard. Not surprising for that region. I've seen them drive cars. In 1991, 17 people were killed in an astounding 164-car wreck during a sandstorm on Interstate Number Five near Coalinga, California. It's not known if any Korean drivers were involved.

Although a lot of bad shit has rained down on this day, a lot of good has become of it too. For instance, in 1890, the Navy demolished the Army by a score of 24-0 in the first ever Army-Navy football game, which was played at West Point, New York. GO NAVY!! Ever wonder why the Air Force never plays? Fly boys throw like girls.

The first flight over the South Pole, was made on this day by U.S. Navy pilot, Lt. Cmdr. Richard E. Byrd. Kind of ironic... Bird. Byrd. GO NAVY!!!

In 1947, U.N. General Assembly passed a resolution calling for the division of Palestine between the Arabs and the Jews. I wonder how that's been going.... Hmm?

Also on this date, Bill Gates adopted the name Microsoft for the company he and Paul Allen had formed. And in 2004, handsome Japanese actor, Godzilla receives a star on Hollywood's Walk of Fame.

It's the birthdays on this day, that have me the most stoked. There are many people born this day, both famous and alike. Pictured above, are just a few of those people. Tom Sizemore (Heat), Don Cheadle (Colors), Anna Faris (House Bunny), Garry Shandling (Iron Man 1 & 2), "Danger" Ehren (Jackass), Gena Lee Nolin (Baywatch), Jeff Fahey (Lawnmower Man) and Larry Joe Campbell (Hall Pass). Also included is fellow Canadian, Howie Mandel (Deal or No Deal). Not to mention, WWE Hall of Famer's "Mean" Gene Okerlund and Jerry "The King" Lawler, and future Hall of Famer, John "Bradshaw" Layfield, who ironically a few years ago not only shared my birthday, but we'd both injured ourselves by tearing our left bicep muscles. His, undoubtedly, from a mishap in the ring, where as my injury was far less glamorous.

I have always held this day in high regards. To most, it's just another day. To me, it's an occasion. Not only was this world blessed by having me born into it this day, but it should be a day held in high regard, like Thanksgiving or Independence Day or Christmas even. Every one should have this day off. Spend it with family. Spend it with friends. As soon as this is posted I'm going to go spend it with my boy, Monkey. Unfortunately, for me, today, I was woken up at the break of 6am with a mind-splitting migraine. Even now, after pumping myself full of prescription narcotics for fighting this ailment, my head still pounds.

So go forth, people. Give your loved ones a squeeze or a hug, I mean. Don't go all "Sandusky" on your family, like some kind of homo. Commemorate this day. Celebrate it! Make it an event. For it is a day that one of history's truly greatest human beings was born. ME!

Bodacious

I have a list of "sports" in my head. On one side are games that I consider to be actual sports and on the other, games that are NOT sports. What decides the criteria is whether I can do it or not. I'm not athletic by nature, so if I am able to perform the sport in question, then for obvious reasons, it cannot be considered a sport.

For instance, I cannot throw a football. Therefore, football IS a sport. I don't know how to skate, so hockey IS a sport. I suppose in that matter, so is figure skating. As well it should. I've seen "Battle of the Blades" in which former NHL'ers participate in figure skating competition for charity. I recall former Maple Leaf, Tie Domi, commenting during his stint in the first season, saying he thought it'd be easy, but he was greatly surprised by the work involved in perfecting the craft of figure skating.

On the other side of the coin though, there are "games", and I use that term lightly, like soccer. You run, you kick a ball. Oooh. Real f*cking tough. I'm asthmatic, but I can run. I can kick a f*cking ball. Soccer IS NOT a sport. Plus the fact that it's gay, doesn't help it's case none, either.

Golf, also, is not a sport. I can do it. Not well, but I can do it. Plus, it's more of a pastime, than a sport. It's just something men do to get away from their wives for a few hours. And given that most men, not all, but most men are married to nagging hags, the idea of escaping for a few hours on the course is far more appealing than putting a bullet in their head. I concur, fella's.

There is one "sport", that I don't consider to be a sport at all, though. It's not one that I can do, nor would I ever attempt to do. It's both, f*cking retarded and far too dangerous to try. That is bull riding. I can't help but wonder, how bored was the first guy in history, to ever try riding a f*cking bull? Bronco busting a horse, as cruel as that seems, I understand as people have been riding horses for centuries, if not longer. Riding a bull, on the other hand, what the f*ck? Riding close to 2000lbs of pure muscle, adrenaline, and anger, as it tries to throw you off and kill you.

The bull pictured above, is named Bodacious. During his career, in the 90's, no man was able to beat him. He, on the other hand, beat many a rider. To a pulp. It is written that Bodacious had one particular move he performed repeatedly. That was to put his head down in the dirt, bringing his butt high in the air, thus forcing the rider forward. Then Bodacious would whip his head back, smashing the riders face in the process. It's said that one rider thought he'd better the bovine, by wearing a hockey mask, but this still ended with his nose being broken and bursting his eye sockets.

Yet, when incidents like this occur in the rodeo industry, everyone is shocked and surprised. This is what confuses me. People acting like f*cking morons and being hurt as a result, and STILL people are surprised. If someone's spinning a loaded pistol like a cowboy, then drops and it shoots their face off, we're all like "What the hell did you expect was going to happen, you dumb shit?!?" So why is failing to ride nearly a ton of piss 'n' vinegar, such a surprise when it turns and gores your stupid ass?

I think most cowboys are a little gay to begin with. I mean, look at their clothes? Who spends that much time picking out a hat? And paisley? Don't get me started. Another blog for another day. But to "try and prove your manhood" by riding a bull? Talk about your "overcompensating". Yeesh!

Bad Touch

Seems that this Penn State fiasco is flooding the news reels as of late. The sex scandal in which one of the assistant coaches has been caught fornicating with children for the past fifteen or so years. This subject doesn't really affect me one way or the other, but after listening to the media banter back and forth on what should have been done, by whom, and when, I find myself, now, filled with some opinions on the matter.

Paterno, who up until just last week, had been coaching the Penn State Nittany Lions for close to fifty years. The man who holds records for the winning-most coach, with an astounding 409 victories, allegedly knew of the misconduct of his assistant coach, Jerry Sandusky, and some of the children who were in his charge. Subsequently, JoePa has been dismissed of his coaching duties, due to the black smudge he's put on the university. Although, when you look at all the details, it's been revealed that Coach Paterno did act within the guidelines that were in place for him for handling such misconduct. However, because the controversy is so blatantly wrong, he's going to be the fall guy for the entire scandal...

The scandal that erupted this past week, however, was the mention of then-graduate assistant, Mike McQueary, who'd reported to Coach Paterno, that he had walked in on Assistant Coach Jerry Sandusky who was at the time, sodomizing a young ten year old boy in the showers. Many have speculated as to why McQueary failed to stop the rape, even suggesting that if they were in his shoes, that they'd have charged Sandusky and not only removed him from the child, but would've assaulted him physically. I believe shock-jock, Howard Stern mentioned that he would've punched Sandusky's teeth down his throat.

It's tough to say what a person would or wouldn't do in such a situation. Everyone wants to believe that they're the tough guy who's going to save the day, but who can say for sure, how they're going to react to such a shocking discovery. I, myself, would have probably intervened, and likely would've gotten my ass kicked by the stocky naked guy with the boner. This, on the other hand, would've given the young victim ample time to flee to safety.

I can't speak for Mike McQueary, except for the fact that he is a ginger. Bright orange hair and little to no pigment in his skin. This is likely why he failed to intervene. There's no such thing as a tough ginger. Throughout history, no tough gingers. Even Richie Cunningham, though he'd gotten into a scuffle or two with Ralph Malph and Potsie, The Fonz was always there to bail their wimpy asses out. Even Ron had Harry and Hermione to save his ass on more than one occasion. So there you have it. Even in Hollywood, there's no fiction so unbelievable as the premise of a tough ginger. THAT is why Mike McQueary never stepped in.

Although I make light of some of what has transpired, I in no way condone the mistreatment of children, in ANY way, especially the sexual misconduct that transpired over the past few decades.

There's talk now that Joe Paterno's name will be erased from the record books and from the trophy's that align the halls of Penn State. This I disagree with. I don't think it's right to erase someone from existence just because of an oversight. I say "oversight", because the man is in his f*cking 80's. He's eighty-four f*cking years old. Try talking to your grandparents about an adult man, in a prestigious position in society, having sex with children. They'll never believe such a thing could occur. Even though they've been on the planet since dinosaurs ruled the earth, and know how f*cked the world can be, they will never believe someone who is well-respected in the public, could manage something so heinous. JoePa, is the same way. It's been speculated that the man has been losing his marbles for years. So why omit his memory, when his is already beginning to fade.

Grade A Douche Bag

I recall as a youth, the many times that I found myself helping a friend's family, to herd their cattle.

My friend's dad, like my own father, was a farmer. He had acres upon acres of land that he sowed with seed every spring and harvested every fall. Unlike my father, however, my friend's family also partook in the raising of cattle. Their farm never raised the cattle for dairy, but for selling off of the beef. Noble in and of itself, I suppose. Contribute to the betterment of society through the culinary arts and such.

However, as I stated above, I often found myself helping out the family in moving the herd of cattle from one pasture to another. I'm unable to remember if it was moving them to the north pasture in the spring or if that came in the fall. Either/or, I don't really give two shits. All I know is that I was invited by my friend for a visit and a sleep over, entertaining ourselves with movies, games and whatever other mischief we could find ourselves getting into. Then in the wee wee hours of Sunday morning, there I'd be, along with his family out chasing cattle around like a f*cking retard.

What the hell did I care, where these f*cking beasts of burden wound up? But there I was, asthmatic little ol' me, huffin' and puffin' like a motherf*cker, chasing these cows around, trying to herd them into another pasture. And all on our feet.

The family, having had lots of practice, had a knack for knowing where they needed to be in order to prevent any strays from eluding them. Me, on the other hand, had no prior knowledge on how to telegraph where the f*ck the animals were going to run. Granted, I'd been rooked into a similar situation just a few months prior, but like most unpleasant experiences, both then and now, I often deleted any knowledge from my memory. I believe that if something isn't enjoyable, why the f*ck remember how to do it? Same thing happened here. The cattle, dumb as they are, were always able to outsmart the young version of me. Repeating that fact now, doesn't shine too favourably on my behalf. Oh well.

What I do remember, from these experiences on my friend's farm, is the constant belittling and the barrage of unfavourable comments that I'd receive from my friend's dad, Wayne. (Normally, I omit the persons name, but being that Wayne was, and I suspect still is, a HUGE C*CKSUCKER, I have no guilt in revealing his identity.)

So Wayne would rush up on me and unleash a fury of colourful metaphors and practically boot stomp my ass into the dirt, all because I couldn't corral HIS stupid cattle. What a douche-bag!

I remember seeing him years later, at another friend's wedding. I showed up with a gal pal of mine. We weren't romantically involved. She was simply a female who I was able to convince to be my "plus one" for this day of bliss. At the reception, Wayne, being half-cut already, not that I recall ever seeing him sober, came over to my friend T____ and I then proceeded to make small talk, which involved mostly belittling me and trying to make me look bad in front of whom he presumed was my girlfriend.

He spoke of how useless I was with "this" and with "that", mostly topics he knew very little about, until he came to my efforts, or lack of, involving the herding of cattle. "Yep!" he boasted smugly, "Jeff'll never make a good cattleman. That much is for sure...!" Then he smiled like the Cheshire Cat at me.

"Why the f*ck would I ever want to be a cattleman?" I said calmly, my friend shocked at my comment. Wayne, looked baffled by my query. "Why would I want to be a cattleman? I mean, there's no money in it! Plus, the only place I'd want to see any cattle, is in 6 or 8oz portions on my plate, cooked to medium-rare with a baked potato and some string beans!" I shook my head in disbelief and made my way outside, my friend T____ following close behind. The last time I saw Wayne that day, was seeing that douche bag, standing alone in the living room of my friend's in-laws house, scratching his head and looking confused by what'd just transpired.

I did actually see that f*cker a few years later. It was after my dad had passed away from cancer and the vultures had all landed on our farm for the estate sale. Wayne was one of those bloodsucking vultures looking for some good deals. He came up to me and offered his condolences on the loss of my father. I don't know if it was sincere, as I doubt he ever liked me. I thanked him for his kind words, but I could tell that it was tough for him to be friendly towards me.

She Whistles When She Walks

"The only thing more pathetic than having 20 kids, is watching a television show about people having 20 kids." - Chelsea Handler

News broke last week about the Duggar family, who are showcased on TLC's "19 Kids and Counting", are expecting their 20th child. Holy f*ck! I can't help but reflect back on the days when my sister and brother-in-law's faces would light up with a sigh of relief when I'd step through the door. A break from their one and only child (at the time), who god bless him, was a ball of energy that would run them ragged for hours and hours. My appearance would give them the opportunity to rest and recharge their batteries. I can't fathom the idea of 19 little monsters running around wreaking havoc on a household. Insanity would soon follow, I'm almost certain.

I realize that every child that is born is a little miracle in and of itself, and having learned the history of miscarriages early on in the Duggar's family life, I understand that each and every child could be construed as a blessing. But Jesus Christ!!! When is enough, enough? Bringing just one child into a world that is already spinning out of control, is almost debateable in it's own right, but bringing nearly two dozen into it? What the hell?

They're quoted as saying "it's God's will". But even God himself has to be scratching his head with disbelief and confusion.

At least they appear to be able to afford such a large family, with the older kids able to venture out and earn some of their own spending money, and not having to rely on mom and dad. Unlike that Octo-mom bitch, who constantly has her hand out for monetary assistance.

Still... My head shakes with disbelief that people can be so irresponsible. Citing that it's "God's will". Maybe if God was wanting to form his own professional football team, but even then, the eldest children will be of retirement age by the time the youngsters will be eligible to suit up.

Using religion as an excuse for having so many kids, is irresponsible. Especially, when you consider most religions to be full of shit anyway. How many times has some radical used the bible as an excuse for their acts of terrorism or alike? Once more, there's God (if he truly exists) up there in the Heavens, leafing through his copy of the bible wondering "Where the f*ck did I say that?!?"

Grant you this, though. The creative process for making 20 plus pregnancies is fun. And if you look at any of the pictures of the Duggar family, they all look happy, especially the Michelle, the mom. Always bright and cheery. Always whistling... Not from her mouth, but when she walks...

[Insert joke here.]

A Guilty Pleasure

Due to a recent injury, I've been seeing a physiotherapist twice a week for a couple of weeks now. Thankfully, my therapist is female, as I've never been comfortable with a dude touching me in any way, even if it is in a professional manner. This is another reason I've opted for a female doctor.

Was doesn't hurt either, is that my therapist is kind of attractive too. Not drop dead gorgeous, like you'd see on the pages of the glamour magazines, but in her own sort of plain-Jane way, she's quite ravishing, and an awesome attitude to boot. We've engaged in small talk while she works out my kinks and what not. She does nothing more than flash a smile and a glance of disbelief when I revealed my belief that country music can turn a man gay, just like the game of soccer IS gay!

The other day, she began using a device my the lower thigh area, where the quadricep joins at the knee, the place where I've experienced the much discomfort over the past couple of weeks, expressed in a sort of ripping/tearing sensation. The device she uses projects ultrasound waves into the muscle and is said to promote healing and regrowth of the damaged area. To best apply the mechanism, which is used in conjunction with a gel, I need to be seated upon the cot, while she is in a seated position. To really work the area, she needs to lean in to apply some pressure.

Today as she was doing this, I happened to look down. Normally, I look all around the room, taking in the various instructional posters and personal photographs which adorn the four walls of her tiny room. However, I glanced down and noticed that she was wearing a low cut shirt. Not only that, but I noticed I could see down her shirt. Not only that, but I noticed I could see, not just her underwear, but the ample bosom within.

Now I know. This is bad. I'm not proud of this act. It was purely innocent, but much like driving past a horrible car accident, I just couldn't look away. As I said before, she is quite attractive and unfortunately a guy such as myself, doesn't tend to do well with the ladies. I'm charming and charismatic, sure, but when I get around women... I just.... I just don't... Don't get me wrong. I'm so sexy it literally f*cking hurts, but I've never fancied myself as a ladies man, is all. Probably because I use terms like "fancied".

So no. I'm not proud and I'm not bragging. I, also, don't run from the truth, especially within the lines of this blog. I am fair game and open to revealing whatever the hell people wish to know in this forum. So it is on that note that I must confess that "I DID SEE NIPPLE!" There. I said it.

I also believe she caught me looking. I was probably gazing for far too long, the lull in the conversation, likely paused for too lengthy of time. But when my eyes finally met hers, she didn't appear angry or uncomfortable or ashamed. It was just business as usual. Which I'm glad. She's helping me out tremendously and my physical limitations are dwindling everyday and my strength is increasing everyday.

Greetings and Salutations!!

Back on October 24th, of this year, I had the misfortune of taking a nasty spill at work, and subsequently injured my left thigh region. The upper leg managed to swell up pretty bad, also resulting in excrutiating pain. It was pain like I'd never felt before, and that's saying a lot, considering how many muscle strains and tears I've endured over the years. The initial prognosis by my physician, was that it was a groin injury. Having never had one before, I had no reason to doubt that diagnosis, although with further examinations in the days to come, it was later learned that it was a quadricep strain, not a groin pull as initially believed. In hopes of allowing it to heal more quickly, I was taken off of work. Forced to stay home, lying back on my bed (for the most part), with my leg elevated. The shitty part was being virtually immobilized, but on the bright side, I was able to catch up on a lot of videotaped television programming.

I was informed by my physiotherapist that she'd spoken with my boss, who was not real pleased that I had been removed from active duty at work. He wanted me to return as soon as possible, which would've preferably been last Wednesday. I opted not, having finally rid myself a majority of the discomfort from the injury. I felt that if allowed the chance to rehabilitate at home with rest, I would less likely reaggravate the strain. Instead of returning immediately, I agreed to return to work today, November 7th.

Although I hadn't spoken with my boss since the week of the injury. He's based out of Calgary, so most times our exchanges are either via telephone, email, or those rare occasions when he comes to town. However, when I'd spoken with my physiotherapist last week, who relayed a message from the boss man, I suspected things may be a little tense this week. When I showed up for work this morning, immediately things felt a little off. He never said two words to me at first, instead shooting me uneasy glares. I don't know if he felt I was faking my injury for some time away from work or if, maybe, I was simply over-exaggerating it. Whatever the case, I felt his dissatisfaction. Then at about ten minutes past eight, he walks up to me and asks "How are your balls?"

I was speechless. Taken aback. "That seemed a little personal," I thought, but he just stood there in front of me, waiting for a response.

"What should I say?" I thought, "Shiny and sparkly? Smooth and silky?"

What the f*ck do you say to that question? I stood there before him for was seemed like an eternity, but actually it was only a few fleeting moments, before I informed him that it was a strained quadricep.

I later texted a friend about my morning greeting, to which he simply replied, "What a fag!" I never laughed so much in one day, of being virtually alone, as I did today. "How are your balls?" Ha ha..., PRICELESS!

Moving On!

All the crazy hub-bub filling the airwaves right now is the sudden dissolve of Kim Kardashian's marriage to NBA baller, Kris Humphries. "Irreconcilable differences" is the reasoning cited behind the divorce which follows just 72 days into the matrimony. Given that the union has only been 72 days in the making, makes me question if much effort was placed into reconciliation.

It's being reported that it was the busy schedule of the voluptuous Kardashian sister, that played a major part in the split. Burning the proverbial candle at both ends, she was jet-setting all over the country (and the world), appearing at several ventures. I'm not a huge advocate for celebrity crap involving anyone in the spotlight, especially if it involves the Kardashians. Frankly, I just don't give two shits. However, when their exploits are on every f*cking channel on the planet, and embossed on the covers of every periodical in the checkout line at the local grocer, it's a little difficult to escape the over-exposure.

What cued me in to the sudden split, wasn't actually any of these media venues, but it was a comment made by someone on Facebook, earlier today. They were exercising their disgust that the duo would sink a whopping $10 million dollars into a wedding, for a marriage that lasted less than one trimester, while starving children remained in the world. I don't know what one has to do with the other, but what confuses me further, is why a nobody from Facebook would give a crap about either.

I, personally, waste a lot of money on a wide variety of shit. At current, I own more DVD's and Blu-ray discs, than I will ever have time to watch, but I've never once been standing online at the video store and thought, "Hmm. I bet there's a starving little shit in Africa that could use a sandwich more than I need to watch the third season of 'Chuck'!!" Just as I'm certain that all the disloyal f*ckers who sucked $10M out of the Kardashian's and the E Network, never gave much thought either.

That addresses that. What irks me, is the ease in which people can dissolve something as beautiful as a marriage, without much effort in saving it. "In sickness and in health"; "For richer or poorer"; "For better or worse", these are all vows which are never addressed anymore. In fact, I believe this is, in part, why so many opt to write their own vows, so they don't feel obligated to keep to the former. It's a bubble-gum culture we live in. Popcorn and pizza, hot and ready at your fingertips after a few seconds in the microwave, rather than tediously watching over it as it cooks atop or in your oven. I've never had any soup that was slowly cooked over the burner on the stove, since I was a mere child. My patience can't stand that long, I need it NOW!

The same goes with people getting married. They want instant gratification. Slap on those rings. Chirp out a couple "I do's" and if you're not happy right away, then let's get a Cracker Jack divorce, so we can move on and ruin the lives of two more people.

Celebrities aren't the only one's guilty of this. They're likely the most guilty of perpetrating such practices, however, but definitely not the sole practitioners of speedy marriages. I have a cousin who was guilty of the same thing. I don't know how long she was with her beau, but the two decided they'd get married. I remember it was quite the affair. Not $10M worth, but it was a sizable event, all the same. My aunt and uncle and her two sisters, worked like motherf*ckers to get each and every detail perfect. From I remember, she was a lovely bride, decked out in a beautiful white gown. The whole day went off without a hitch and everyone involved, lived happily ever after. Well, NO, actually. The two of them, my cousin and her new husband, called 'er quits after only a couple short months. It was quite a shock to everyone in the family. What was more confusing, was why more planning hadn't gone into the aftermath of the marriage. "Irreconcilable differences" were cited, but what's more, I never got back the wonderful cow bell that I'd purchased for them for their wedding*. (*This was the first wedding that I decided to become "that guy" who bought the most absurd gift, and a cow bell that mounted to a wall, seemed like the perfect inaugural gift.)

Marriage is not to be an avenue to be trodden down lightly. I've considered it's bliss. I've seriously considered it. I even have a wedding song picked out for the occasion and a perspective-wife in which to propose to one day, if the opportunity ever presents itself again. I've thought out every prospective detail ahead of time to ensure a long and happy life. For when I get hitched, it'll be like the NWO said in the 90's..., "For Life!"

It does sadden me now, though, that Kim Kardashian marriage has come to an end. She and Kris seemed so happy in those photos on the cover of the National Inquirer. But it's not the lost between she and her former hubby, that bothers me so, but because I'm going to have to hear and read about this frivolous shit for the next six f*cking months. Move over Lindsay Lohan, there's a new bitch who needs to be the center of attention...! Seriously? I mean, who gives a shit. They tried marriage. They horribly failed at it. Now's the time to give them some space and move the f*ck on!!!

F*ck The Whales!!!

I love breasts. I am a great fan of them. Then again, I'm a guy, so that probably goes without saying. Whatever the size, it makes no difference to me. I like them all. Breast cancer, has got to be one of the most foul and evil creations ever to set foot upon this earth.

Cancer in general sucks ass, but for something so disgusting and evil to happen to something so pleasant and wonderful, is heinous at best. It's like obliterating teddy bears with mechanized steel and armory. Topping something as sweet as Peaches & Cream with vinegar and Tabasco Sauce. The two simply should never go hand-in-hand (pardon the pun).

So in addition to the many children's charities that I try to contribute to, I also try to give when I can, to various Breast Cancer charities. I say "To hell with the whales!!! Save the boobies!!!" Everyone benefits from breasts. When was the last time the whales did anything for ya? If you go whale watching, you may have a fond memory for a week or so, but if you see a nice pair of breasts....? That is forever!

As grand as the many charities are, for Breast Cancer, I'm beginning to think the promotion is getting a little over the top. I see in the flyers that come to my house, that you can now buy Breast Cancer tools. Pink hammers with ribbons emblazoned on them. (...Hee hee, pink hammers...) I even saw Pink Lemonade with the ribbons affixed to them. The think that I thought really went a little too far was the chewing gum (pictured in the bottom RH corner of the photo above). Each piece of gum had a little pink ribbon on both sides of it. I realize that it's probably only a matter of punching a few buttons into a computer to get this to happen, but Jesus Christ! When is enough enough?

As I stated before, I love breasts. I am a great fan of them. Breast cancer is amongst the greatest evils of this planet, right along with white supremacy and soccer. All of them should be abolished. I even don't mind all the pink shit. I'm a Bret Hart fan, and like the moniker he had "Real men wear pink!" However, the world is getting flooded with too many pink ribbons. It's a good think they're associated with breasts, cuz if they were associated with dick-cancer, I think they would've fallen by the wayside, long ago.

[The birds pictured above are Blue-Footed Boobies]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

The children have another day of preparation, donning their multi-colored outfits of princesses, gargoyles, twinky vampires, or superheros. My nephew, this year, is going to be one of the knights of the infamous round table, but not Sir Lancelot, because Lancelot was a douche-bag. (My sentiment, NOT my nephew's.)

Gone, however, are the opportunities for office workers and alike to wear their costumes, until next year. I believe so, anyway. It's been so long since I've worked in an atmosphere that allowed displays of Halloween folklore. There was a Subway where the owner, a fairly attractive cougar, had all of her (also attractive) female employees dress up in a menagerie of sexy-looking nurses, maid, and cops. Mmm. Sexy cop. I worked at a place a few years ago, where one of the girls dressed like a sexy cop. That image emblazoned on the inside of my brain. I may be hit with Alzheimer's one day and I may forget who all my friends and family are, but I believe I will always recall S_____ dressed as the sexy cop!

That's one of the reasons I love Halloween so much. I completely admit to that. I like the idea of dressing up in costume, but have never been real successful at it. Either that or never had the budget to do it write. But I love Halloween for the sexy garb. It's like that line from the movie "Mean Girls". Halloween, the one day a year a girl can dress like a total sl*t! I agree whole-heartedly.

God bless those young women. I suppose older women can do it too, but that's just shameful. Most times it's like seeing an animal suffering by the side of the road. You just want to put it out of it's misery. Too mean, ya think? Trust me! If you seen me in sexy garb, you'd want to put me out of my misery, too. If not for any other reason than, I've clearly lost my f*cking mind!

I love the sexy costumes. Sadly, another year has passed and thus, another opportunity to ogle the girls from afar. Not all is lost, though. Perhaps for lunch tomorrow, I may happen by a familiar Subway for a sandwich. If I'm lucky.... Some more happy memories for when I'm old and drooling in the old-folks home....

Better Than

"I recently became a member of an exclusive club." comedian Dane Cook announced to an arena full of his adoring fans, "It's the 'I dropped my phone in a toilet full of pee' club." The audience erupted in laughter at the premise, some I'm sure, also members of that same elite group. Well, today, I'm happy to announce that I did NOT drop my cell phone into a toilet bowl full of my own urine. However, considering this is a day in which I got shit on, it's only fitting that I be pissed on, as well.

My boss was in town, from his home base in Calgary. It's actually pretty great working for a company where your boss is one province away. There aren't any shenanigans taking place, but it's nice to not have someone breathing down your neck at every waking turn. I've been employed with this company for a little over six months now. When I signed my contract at the beginning of my tenure, I was promised a review at six months, with a $1 raise. I thought this was great, considering my previous job would nickel and dime you to death with measly twenty-five cent "slaps in the face" (as I called them). So when my boss-man rolled into town, I thought this was the opportunity to receive that raise.

I first received a sheet from him, on which had several words on it. Shit like "creativity" and "attendance" and other words associated with my position. I was to rate myself between 1 and 5, one being really shitty and five being absolutely perfect. I filled it out, being brutally honest where I thought I needed to be, and he did the same, adding comments on each line. Then shortly after lunch, I sat down with him to discuss what we'd written.

Apparently my being "brutally honest" paled in comparison to his read on me and my situation. He ranked me pretty f*cking low on most of the points. However, in discussing my take on them, I managed to change his mind more than once. Closer to four or five times, to be perfectly honest. He liked that I recognized where I needed to improve and adjusted the scores accordingly. After our talk, I felt relieved. It was one of the best reviews I'd ever had. Not like my former employer who'd rake you over the coals, then not offer up any guidance on how to improve. While basking in my accomplishments, I hesitated for a moment then asked about my raise, to which the boss-man responded, "I discussed it with B__ (who is the manager for western Canada), and we both agree that we're going to pass on giving it to you for now."

He saw that I was physically taken aback by this comment. "It's not that you don't deserve one," he explained, "it's just the sales are down in this branch." That's f*ckin' horse shit, I thought. Of course, the sales are down. There's ONLY two f*cking people working here. One's an idiot and the other's me, who doesn't know what the f*ck he's doing. "Maybe in the new year," he explained.

"Okay." I said, thinking that was a hell of a shot to take. I like to think, and he seemingly agreed, that although my knowledge and experience is limited in the hydraulics field, I've done rather well in the short time that I've been associated with this company. Although, getting shit on for something out of my hands, really doesn't seem fair.

So fast forward to my coming home. I had to go to the bathroom really bad. I had the first inklings that something was afoot, when I was at the grocery store. Being one who has an increasingly short span of opportunity between my body's alerting my brain to the need for bladder evacuation, I knew that my window was decreasing exponentially. Generally, not to share too much information with you, when my body "says" pee, I need to get to a bathroom quick! The same goes for the other end of the spectrum too, only I have a little longer window there because of the ability to clench my butt cheeks together. Stop the "turtling-effect", so-to-speak. But this was definitely urinary-related.

I rushed home, the best I could, obeying posted traffic speed limits all the while. Thank Christ the kiddies are out of school when I come home from work. I got into the garage and retrieved all my shit out of the trunk, and headed into the house. Times growing more and more desperate. There was now a little sidle and skip step in my walk, as I sang my ever-popular song, "Jeffy's Gotta Pee!" The lyrics are real simple. It goes like this. "Jeffy's gotta pee! Jeffy's gotta pee! Oh my god, does Jeffy gotta pee!" [repeat, second verse - same as the first!]

Now if anyone's read my previous blog, you'll know that I f*cked my leg up pretty f*cking bad the other day, after a nasty fall at work. The doctor says it's a groin pull and I'll take her word on that, but it feels more like a tearing of my quadricep. I haven't any strength in it and every step I take feels like flesh being violently torn from the bone, like watching a lioness tear into a wildebeest. So no matter how much volume I was giving the song, trying to make it down the stairs and to the bathroom was now a desperate battle, followed by removing my shorts 'n' underwear.... I'll spare you the details.

The end result was not pleasant. I sat on the seat, inspecting the aftermath. The only conclusion I could succumb to was "It figures that on a day that I'd get shit on, I'd get pissed on as well."

One proverb that I often repeat to those around me, seems eerily fitting here is "It's better to be pissed off, than pissed on." Now I can admit to being both.

Below The Belt

I used to hear about this athlete or that athlete being removed from the roster due to a groin injury. I never really understood what all that injury involved, but regularly thought that the athlete was being a primadonna. That the injury really wasn't that bad. That with a little bit of TLC, the slugger could lace up his skates or cleats and jump right back into the swing of things. I thought that all they had to do was "man up" and walk off their injury. Holy crap, was I in for a rude awakening.

It would seem that the "Powers That Be", the gods of professional athleticism, have heard enough of my blasphemy and graced me with the very same injury that I've mocked others with for so long. Anyone who knows me, can testify that throughout my shitty, yet distinguished life, I've have suffered through a great many injuries. I've had a few surgeries, one that left me quite disfigured. And other injuries that probably should have hurt more than they did. I can assure all readers, that despite my grocery list of "who's who" injuries, I've not had to deal with the level of discomfort I am feeling with regards to this personal injury, which I acquired yesterday at work.

The day had begun like any other day. My co-hort, Mr. G_____ was not in, as he had other engagements to tangle with. I'd come into the main office, clicked on my computer, then went to the warehouse to turn on the lights and unlock the back door. As I approached the front office, I was about 15 feet from the door that divides the two rooms of the building when I heard the telephone ring. If you don't answer it right away, it goes to voice mail, which can be a pain in the ass sometimes, so I picked up my pace to beat the ringer. That's when my foot caught the corner of a rug that, to this day I can't figure out it's purpose by that door. Instead of a little hop and a skip, like usual, I instead came crashing down with a tremendous THUD! I must've twisted and contorted my body in such a way to prevent extensive injury, because as I sat there, against the coolness of the steel door, I didn't feel any pain. However, in the hours that followed, something began to augment.

Gone was my usual swagger about the office (and in life), and in it's place an increasing limp matched with agonizing discomfort. I went to my doctor earlier this morning, who ran a couple of tests and confirmed to me that I have a "pulled groin". I was overwhelmed with understanding and compassion. I actually felt bad for mocking all those athletes I'd heard of with similar injuries. I understood now, why they'd be removed from their respective active rosters. This was an injury that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. That is, except one piece of shit, who shall remain nameless, but looks like a "wisent". That idiot deserves to feel this kind of pain... For being a dickhead!

So to all the athletes who may come across this blog, please allow me this opportunity to apologize for mocking your groin injuries, past and present. I never realized the extensiveness of this discomfort and you can best be sure that I will never mock sports-related injuries again.

As for all the soccer players of the world... SCREW YOU!!! Soccer's not a sport!!! It's gay, but not a sport!!! I say, "Get up and walk it off, sissy!!!" The only groin pulls you guys are getting, are the one's you give each other in the locker room showers. Circle jerks, anyone?

Molestation of Justice

"Innocent 'til proven guilty". Hopeful words idolized by anyone on the receiving end of justice. "The opposition have to prove, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I am guilty of the offense accused of me, by my accusers."

However, in recent memory, these words are not in the vocabulary of most. I don't know if it's the advent of technology that has involved public opinion more now, than it ever did throughout history. I know the media, has always contributed in large part to public opinion, but with the added features to day-to-day life, I doubt that the 24-hour news channels are the lone contributors to the backwards thought of today's "man on the street". Although, the "absolute belief" in one's guilt was present during the Salem Witch Trials. Women thrown into the river... If they floated, they were heretics and burned to death. If they drowned... Then they were innocent of witchcraft, but still dead never the less.

Still, I am somewhat fascinated by this backwards thinking. How so many can be certain of one's guilt, even without hearing all the facts and evidence. Unfortunately, today we are a "CSI" generation, and most consider themselves "armchair forensic experts" on a variety of subject, though we lack the proper education. I, myself, not completely innocent of this fact either, finding myself faced with some legal troubles once upon a time, and referring back to my knowledge of TV's "Law & Order", desperate to find a legal loophole.

Listening to those around me, though, everyone seems so certain of guilt, it's almost frustrating enough to the point of wanting to scream. Case and point.., the recent Casey Anthony trial. "Tot Mom" accused of murdering her young daughter, Caylee Anthony. She was ultimately acquitted of the accusations, and people went into a spiraling uproar. The weeks following the acquittal, the news was riddled with discussion tables on how American Justice had let a killer walk free. Do I think Casey Anthony was guilty of murdering her daughter? It doesn't matter what the f*ck I think. She may have contributed to the accidental death of Caylee, but cold-blooded murder? Although it does happen, I would hope that most mothers would be incapable of such a horrendous act. But Double-Jeopardy takes effect, and she can no longer be tried for the death of the little girl. So drop it, already.

Society is unable to simply drop stuff, though. Unless there's something else to distract them, they're going to lock their teeth into anything they deem an injustice, like a ravenous pitbull. Amanda Knox, recently released from an Italian prison, after charges of murder were dropped. I'd heard some about this subject over the past few years, but never invested much thought into it. Then one morning, as I readied myself for work, I overheard a discussion on CNN, about the consideration of the charges being reversed. She, her (then) boyfriend, and a drifter, were accused of murdering her [British] room mate. She'd always denied that she had anything to do with it, as did the boyfriend. The usual banter from anyone accused of any crime. The drifter, however, admitted to having sex with the victim prior to her murder. I thought to myself, "They think she helped a homeless guy kill her room mate? She'll be released." Low and behold she was, but in the weeks since her return home, I've heard the media constantly speak out about the injustice of another wrong-doer, being released back into society. HOLY F*CK, people! Just f*ckin' drop it! It doesn't even concern you.

The one thing that does continue to elude me. To confuse me further, is the Michael Jackson trial. Dr. Conrad Murray on trial for the alleged murder of the Prince of Pop, Michael Jackson. Again, another case of society deciding the already guilt of the man accused. Do I think the guy is guilty? Of course, I do. The man is clearly a f*cking idiot! At least with the previous examples, there is a plausible chance of innocence, even if people refuse to admit it, but Dr. Murray is clearly a moron, and whether he injected the pop star with the lethal dose or not, he made the drugs available to Michael Jackson, which should make him guilty, regardless.

That's not the thing that confuses me. Quite the contrary, his idiocy is quite apparent. What eludes me is society's love of Michael Jackson. As an artist, he was quite ingenious. I will grant you that. However, the man was a f*cking pedophile. He liked children, and not in a good way. He liked to touch them and who knows what else he did to them.

In the early 1990's, he was accused of child molestation! He never even went to trial for that, choosing instead to pay the child and his family an undisclosed amount of money, which dictates to me "Hey! I'm guilty of fondling your private parts, but I'll pay you lots of money to just go away and forget about it." And the kid did. And everyone did forget about it. Until it f*cking happened again.

Where was the undeniable belief of absolute guilt on Michael Jackson? Why is it if a pedophile gets murdered by his neighbours, it's looked upon as "justice", but Michael Jackson was upheld as an American icon. He gets accused TWICE of inappropriately touching children, but because he invented the Moonwalk, "he must be innocent". That f*cking bullshit!!!

Michael Jackson had a few popular songs, invented a cool dance move that is imitated poorly by millions, and liked fondling children. Not only did he get off scot-free, but he was also allowed to be a father, naming one of his children "Blanket"! What the f*ck kind of name is that for a kid? (But I digress...)

It is said that "Justice is Blind". I think society are the ones who are blind. No one's "innocent 'til proven guilty" in their eyes. Then if the accused are proven innocent, they rant and rave to be heard, when in reality, all that energy could be useful and more productive elsewhere. As for Michael Jackson... He's further proof that rich white men can get off any felonious charges in America.

It is probably not a popular belief, but of all the atrocities that occur in the world on a daily basis, the premature passing of Michael Jackson, probably wasn't the worst thing to ever happen. The world doesn't need another bubble gum pop song or a new dance step. And it definitely didn't need to see a third trial of molestation charges involving the Prince of Pop.