Smokin' Walter, Fire Engine Guy

First of all. I know my views aren't going to be very popular, but that doesn't make them any less true. So that being said, Number One: Firemen are f*cked! And secondly, I pray my house never starts on fire.

I mean, God bless those goofy bastards, for laying their lives on the line to rescue those in peril from fires, and squealing kittens from trees. They're guys doing the shit that I hope I never have to do. After all, if the kitten got up the tree, the little f*cker can damn well come down the tree itself. Why saddle their owner with that unnecessary expense.

But seriously, anyone who willfully runs all willy-nilly into a raging fire, has to have a screw or two lose to begin with. Running into that situation goes all against human nature. In other words, they're inhuman, which is almost the same as insane. And ladies, you don't really want to bring home a guy who's f*cking bonkers, to meet momma.

For some reason, though, the ladies inexplicably are drawn to these bad boys. Frankly, I don't get it. Then again, I don't understand the women who are attracted to serial killers, wife beaters or Gerard Depardieu (too obscure o' reference?). Take the bloke in the photograph above. Why the f*ck is he wearing a scarf over his face? He's clearly not in a fire, so I have to assume, he's "gangsta". You can also tell, because the douche bag is wearing his helmet, slightly askew.

Now, I'm not a complete asshole. (Got many folks fooled though, don't I?) All the brave men and women who lost their lives on 9/11 did so bravely, and their memories are not lost on me, nor are they unappreciated. But in the years that have followed that fateful day, I've crossed paths with many of these fiery soldiers, and have discovered that many use the memory and the substantial losses of that day, as a sort of entitlement. I recall one such incident at a night club, where there were some off-duty firefighters on the premisis. They were pushing people around, getting all tough and shit, while proudly donning the City's Fire Shield on the breast pocket of their shirt. One fellow, in particular, shoved me aside, thus spilling my intoxicating beverage. I'm thrifty at best and don't agree with the inflated prices of alcoholic beverages at the local drinking establishments, but that dislike goes doubly when some asshole spills my drink without so much as a f*cking sorry or even a nod of apology. Instead, this guy responded to my "What the f*ck?!?" with a braggart "Whatcha gonna do? I'm a fire fighter!"

Perhaps this experience has simply jaded my attitudes towards these guys..., but I doubt it. Because, in the end, they're still all f*cked.

I'm not completely in the clear of this vocation, though. I admit that, as a child, I flirted with the fantasy of being in the fire fighting profession when I grew up, too. Except, as a little kid, I didn't want to be a fireman. Instead, I had my sights set on actually becoming a fire truck. Pretty f*cked up, huh?

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Have a nice day and remember...

ONLY YOU CAN PREVENT FOREST FIRES...

Rude Awakenings

I've stated before about how my cat, since being "fixed", ie. having his nads chopped, seems overly affectionate to my legs. My left leg to be specific.
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My leg is, thankfully, alway clad in a faux fur blanket made of polyester. It is soft to the touch and simulates animal fur quite nicely, so I do understand the confusion.., somewhat. I've often commented that despite his intelligence for problem solving, ie. getting the toy ball out of the bag without climbing in, for fear that his daddy (me) is going to scoop him up inside it. However, in other aspects, he simply has me stumped, left scratching my head at the idiocy. But he's just a (arguably) small creature and a juvenile, as well.
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He is clever enough to know that I find his amorous behavior with my limbs, quite distasteful as I've tossed him aside many times, calling him a "fag". (Sorry to the gay community, but what else do you call a guy who humps your leg?) So now, my cat, Monkey, covertly attacks my legs when I am deep asleep. As I stated before, my cat Monkey has a proficiency for problem solving.
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Most times, I am lucky enough to catch him before the "grand finale", and toss him aside, again repeating my belittlement of his sexuality. This morning, I was awoken by him violent gyrations on my left leg once more. Thankfully, I was able to catch him and toss him aside before he could finish his deed, but not without catching a glimpse of his "little pink thing", and I use that term loosely. It's an image I wish I could delete from my mind's eye. It truly is. But on a completely different note, I'm thinking that I shouldn't have saddled him with the name MONKEY, when it's clear he should've been named "Ron Jeremy".

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Have a nice day, all!

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**For anyone who doesn't know who Ron Jeremy is: (1) Where have you been for the last decade or three; and (2) Google the name.

I'll Be Brief...

Honestly speaking.... For many years, if you were to ask me to define "boxer briefs", I'd have told you it referred to the fact sheet that accompanies a professional pugilist prior to a bout. However, in the classiest of terms, this actually refers to the underwear garment, worn by men.

I, for many many years, have preferred straight boxers. Leaving "the boys" to swing freely. To and fro, back and forth, all around willy-nilly. Frankly, I enjoyed the freedom. It was all the enjoyment of walking around the house in my underwear, only out in the world, where no one knew any better.

However, I've come to the conclusion, that this isn't necessarily the right road to be venturing down, and a couple of nights ago, I purchased some boxer briefs from a large consumer conglomerate. I won't say where exactly, but.... Wal-Mart. I've always been one who appreciated "bang for a buck". (I don't know what that means exactly, but I'm a little inebriated at the moment.)

The experience, I have to say, is really different. Breath-taking, if I may. First off, I noticed that I don't have the flexibility I once had. Climbing into my truck, proved a little more challenging than usual. My legs felt like they were connected by a web, like the feet of an aquatic bird. Quack!

Secondly, the support was suprising as well. No more willy-nilly, but more cuppage. Like two peas in a pod, if you'll pardon the expression, or a nice snug pair of gloves.

I realize now, even in my current state, that sharing this little tid-bit about my little tid-bits, is almost as strange as the experience itself. But if I can't entertain you all, then what the f*ck is the point of writing any of this stuff.

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Have a nice day, folks!!!

I Got A Long Screw For $77

It's true! Earlier today, I shelled out $77 in exchange for a long screw, but before y'all get your panties in a bunch and protest, remember that actor Charlie Sheen recently shelled out $26000 (allegedly) for a weekend romp in Vegas with a menagerie of prostitutes, and everybody still loves him, regardless. Besides, it is with great misfortune that I must report that it wasn't that kind of a screw.

Nope! Instead, the screw to which I am referring is a three incher that I took into my right rear tire. I had to pay out a whopping $77 to get it repaired. $25 for the repair, and because my truck has a tire pressure monitoring system on it, another $35 bucks was shelled out for it's recalibration.

Awe... A little let down now, are we? Y'all thought you were going to get a tawdry tale of ill repute. A sneak peak at the underworld that is Jeff? Sorry to disappoint, but I do like where your minds all went. It speaks to me that many of you readers, possess the same twisted imagination and sense of humour as I do. Thank you for that.

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Now have a nice day, you freaks!!

Haircut Day!!

I love Haircut Day! Nothing else even comes close to how I feel on Haircut Day, except maybe new socks. I f*cking love the feel of new socks, but I already wrote that blog. It is a favourite amongst some of my fans...

Haircut Day, on the other hand, is f*cking stupendous. Nothing can get me down on Haircut Day. A stranger could walk up to me, look me dead in the eye, and call me a "Motherf*cker!" and it wouldn't even phase me. You know why? Because it's Haircut Day!!

On Haircut Day, I am f*cking perfect! Everybody loves me. Everybody wants to be me. Everyone wants to be my friend. Even that c*cksucker who called a "motherf*cker", wants to be my friend.

People often are jealous of me, on Haircut Day! I suspect because I am so calm, cool, and collected. I'm like Teflon. Shit just runs off me and nothing sticks. My only regret is, that Haircut Day only comes every six weeks or so. So when the clock winds down on Haircut Day, it is to my great disadvantage that everything else in life, seems to pale in comparison.

Oh. I do not deny that I can mask most of the horrendous shit that comes flying my way the other 5weeks and 6days until my next haircut. But like a sifter, some shit gets through. However, it is how I deal with the remaining shit. I can let it affect me, which can be devastating sometimes. OR, I can rise above it. Use that sifted shit as fuel. Fuel for my cleverness and yes, I'm being humble when I say this, my f*cking brilliance.

Some of my greatest accomplishments and ideas have come from sifting through the shit. I think it is, perhaps, residue left over from Haircut Day. I have recently endured an atom blast that seemingly obliterated my very being, and while most people would rather curl up into a ball and ride the shit storm through, my cockiness and shear brilliance has allowed me, once more, to prosper from the shit. I shall survive until my next Haircut Day.

Unfortunately, I got my hair cut only yesterday, so I've another 5 weeks and 5 days of shit to endure, but f*ck it! I'm a motherf*cking survivor. Nothing can kill me! I'm invinsible! Just like I am on Haircut Day.

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But you know what the best part of Haircut Day is for me? I.. AM.. ONE.. SEXY... BITCH!!! Oh it's true! It's goddamned true! Oh my brotha.... TESTIFY!!!!

Later!!

Encore! Encore!

Driving home, I noticed the car in front of me, bobbing and weaving. Meandering in and out of my lane, without any rhyme or reason.

"Uhm. Excuse me...!" I uttered from behind my steering wheel, knowing full well that the driver of this little white Nissan wasn't going to concede my wishes, whether she could hear me or not.

After a few short moments, though they felt quite lengthy in my haste, she finally moved her keester out of my way. Ceasing the moment, I blasted past her with a flash. I looked down into the cockpit of her sedan, as I blew by, and noticed her flailing her arms about, in rhythm to the music, I assumed. I also noticed her really mouthing words that I could not hear over the blasting of my own music. She appeared to really be annunciating every word out of her mouth. She really meant whatever it was she was saying.

"Oh!" I vocalized, "No wonder you wouldn't let me by. You're in the middle of a concert."

Cracked!!

I feel like complete shit, right now. I suspect it's because of the shitty shitty meal I had tonight. Actually, I doubt you could legitimately call that concoction of ingredients, an actual meal. In theory, it makes sense. KFC sells something similar to it. Taste-wise, it's about the same, except for the shitty KFC chicken taste. That over-bearing mixture of mysterious herbs and spices that either taste great going down and like complete shit afterwards, OR if you're unlucky enough to get a snot-nosed punk-ass kid, with his britches down around his knees who does that job as a part-time gig, then the chicken just tastes like shit anyway. For the most part, KFC always tastes like shit. And the mixture of foods that I included in my creation tonight, wasn't much better.

The food I speak of is the mixture of mashed potato, with chicken bits, corn and gravy. Tonight I got a little more creative, adding a little garlic and some shredded cheese. Overall, it's still pretty shitty. Especially, when you consider the crap I used as the 'chicken' ingredient. It was a can of No Name chicken, but the questionable morsel that came out of the can, barely resembled anything from the meat portion of the dietary triangle.

In moderation, I suppose it'd be suffice for a quick meal, but I don't like leftovers. Mostly because leftovers tend to get pushed further and further to the back of my fridge, to the point where I lose sight of them and are forgotten shortly after. That is, until a stench becomes so strong, that when I lean in to grab the butter, something overpowers me, and drags me back to that forgotten land, in the rear of my fridge. There I am berated and beaten with a barrage of filth and calloused fists. Scary, indeed. So to counter-act this sullen practice, I instead opt to finish the entire quantity of food prepared. I know this is wrong, but my brain doesn't know any better.

It reminds me of this one time, I was at a friends house for a bonfire and barbecue. There was a lot of drinking being done, and I was partaking at the time. Near the end of the night, it was just about time to go. I still had a fair quantity of alcohol left, but didn't want to waste it by tossing it. But on the other hand, I didn't want to have it in my possession for the drive home. I opted to guzzle that shit down. "Two birds with one stone", so to speak. Boy did I pay the price for that one. Blacked-out!! No idea how I got home, nor do I recall anything else. I did hear stories though. From acquaintances and friends of my sister's. [I seem to have forgotten my point...]

Oh yeah! Gluttony... Gluttony? What the fu---?

Ah... Yes. I see by dictionary.com, that 'gluttony' is an accurate description.

Seriously though, I have to stop this shit. Stop with the excessive.... everything! I've hit my limit and have broke on through to the other side. I have to stop with a lot of the stupid ass shit that I do. Get my shitty life in order. On the straight and narrow. Say good-bye to the shit and strive to be better. How do I expect others to give two shit's about me, if I don't give myself any respect?

So this is the new me (I hope). Striving to be better. Get my life in check. Get organized. Get fit. Then everything will fall into line, I'm sure.

For a short time..., I considered becoming an alcoholic. My dad was an alcoholic. He drank for decades. And all the while that he drank, he maintained a slim appearance. He looked quite healthy considering how much he drank and how little he ate. Still... He was an extremely scary angry man when he drank, so there was the downside to the alcoholism... I don't get angry or dickish when I drink. Quite the opposite actually. I'm either goofy or down, but never an asshole. At least I don't think so... But aah! I should probably avoid that avenue too. Can't expect to attract a sexy somebody, when I'm drooling all over myself....

F*ck!!! Losing weight is f*cking hard!!!

Later folks!!!

Who Gives A Shit?

I find it very surreal, for some odd reason, everytime I find myself sifting through my cat's litter box, in search of nuggets large and small. Just like the gold miners of old, I find it oddly comforting when I find a large morsel of dried poo or pee in my pooper-scooper. Albeit, I find it quite disgusting too.

I recall this one time, when a former co-worker, K____, asked me about Monkey, my cat. Her boyfriend was present and seemed to light up, asking me about my dog. The wind in sails quickly disappeared when he learned from K____ that Monkey was, in fact, a feline.

Personally. As much as I like dogs, I'd much rather be a cat owner. Not any old cat. I hate them long-haired Persian f*ckers. They all look pretty gay, and I'm almost certain that the male Persian are praying for death because of it. Monkey is a tabby. I wanted a Devon Rex, once upon a time, but $1200 for a f*ckin' cat, in my opinion, is complete bullshit. My family always told me to get a Labradoodle, but I told them I wasn't that flexible, adding that I'd have to kick my own ass if I owned something called a "Labradoodle".

Admittedly, the worst thing about owning a cat, is the sifting of the cat turds out of the litter box. And my cat, for some reason, always has to go at the precise time that I'm cleaning the box out. While I'm scooping, I'm often fighting to keep him from squeezing out a fresh steamer. I now distract him with a treat, while I steal away to shovel shit.

As terrible as it is, though, having to collect his poops and pees into a large vanilla-scented garbage bag, I'd still much rather do this than what my sister and brother-in-law have to do with their dog. Tucker is a three year old St. Bernard. He's not a huge huge dog, compared to most dogs of his breeding, but he can still take a whopper of a shit. I cannot conceive of the idea picking up a still steaming lump of dog shit, even if my hand is clad in a plastic bag. I remember when I had to look after Tucker one evening, when my sister was in the hospital giving birth to my nephew Jake. I took Tucker out for a walk, really really early in the morning. Long before any other dog owners would be walking their dogs, fully intent on letting the dog shit in the park and never even attempting to pick the nasty's up. Gross, I know. I think all dog owners should have to pick up their dog's shit. If you choose to have a dog, it should be mandatory to pick up their shit. Tucker, to put it bluntly, is not my dog. Therefore, I'm an exception to the rule. A loop-hole to the law, if you will.

I grew up on a farm. We had tons of cats (in the barn), and many different dogs throughout the years that I lived there. I can admit, as of right this minute, that I cannot ever remember seeing any of the dogs shitting in the yard. I don't doubt that they did, indeed, shit. After all, everybody poops. I just can't remember seeing any of them do it. I seen them all lift a leg and take a piss. I always hated coming out of the house to find a fresh stream of urine dripping down my bicycle, but not once did I ever find a nasty dog turd in the yard. And I would remember something like that.

I think it's funny as hell when I see a dog takin' a shit. Hilarious!!! Their whole body tenses up and they get this f*ckin' blank stare on their faces. In deep concentration, like their reading the stock market numbers in the Wall Street Journal. Probably concentrating on how to contort their body's in order to get the least amount of fecal matter on themselves. As concentrated you would be too, if you had to bathe yourself with your motherf*cking tongue.

But I'd never trade my cat for anything. Even if I were offered a dog that shit butterflies and never needed me to pick up it's nasty's. My cat is pretty frickin' cool. He's got an attitude sometimes, this is true. He's told me to go "f*ck myself" on many an occasion. And even now, he's curled up at my feet, snoring, and cutting off the circulation to my toes. Oooooouch!!!

Cool-Ass Musical Motherf*ckers

I will not protest the fact that I am a fan of Alecia Moore, better known the world over as Pink! It's undeniable that the woman has got some pipes. She can really sing. A fact that is so rare these days, what with all the bubble gum pop stars that are hitting the airwaves. But beyond that, Pink is just a cool shit.

I do not doubt that she could kick my ass in a fair fight. She seems ultra-tough. Not that I'm one to condone violence against women, but there is something about her, that I find completely intimidating. Like she'd be cool one minute, then ripping a guy's head off the next. Perhaps it's bi-polarism. I don't know. But she is cool as f*ck! This is my belief.

Pink, in my opinion, is also the modern-day, female version of what Elvis Presley was in the 50's and 60's. Right down to the snarl even. The only thing missing is the slicked back greasy hair and the cheesy lame-ass movies. Although, according to IMDB.com she has appeared in a couple of flicks. Nothing as cheesy as Elvis' "Harum Scarum", "Blue Hawaii" or "Spinout", just to name a few.

Both, in my books, are cool-ass musical motherf*cker's, a term I coin with much admiration. But the one thing that I like more about Pink, than I do Elvis, is that she doesn't seem to rely heavily on the narcotics, as the late King of Rock 'n' Roll seemed to throughout much of his life. Even with troubled childhood she claims to have had after the divorce of her parents.

This is the one thing that I've always had a problem understanding with musicians. Why all the f*ckin' drugs?!? I can understand cutting loose and getting f*cked up on Jack Daniels once in awhile, although I don't know about the Jack, per se, but getting wild, I get! Getting harped up on uppers and downers and all the shit in between? F*ck that! The adrenaline you get from the screaming fans should be enough of a drug. If you wanna hallucinate, then f*ck it. Hire people to act out hallucinations for you. You got the cash! Don't buy a waterfall for in the bedroom of your second home on the east coast, when you don't even stay there when you're in town anyway. Use that money to pay actors to throw around midgets and spank donkey's or whatever tickles your fancy that day!

....But I digress. Pink? F*ckin' A-cool! Elvis? After it's all said and done, he was (and still is) one cool-ass motherf*cker!!!

'Nuff said!

Have a nice weekend!!!!

Invinsible!

Earlier tonight, I ran an errand to my mother's house. Upon my return home, much of my trip was obscured by a dense fog. Simply came upon the northwestern section of the city, and came quite unexpectedly.

The fog was thick. Not so thick that I couldn't see the cars in the next lane, but thick enough to spark a memory regarding a similar fog that I came upon years ago. Way back when I still owned my 1986 Mercury Capri.

The car was very similar to the one pictured at left, only mine wasn't an RS, which meant it had a different front bumper and different rim package. The colour-scheme, however, is the same, as was the bubble rear window.

It was a foggy night, well past nine o'clock in the evening. There wasn't any snow on the ground, as there is tonight, but the fog was extremely thick. We, my car-mates and I, were running late, returning home from Regina, and needing to be back here in Toontown by 10pm. It was dark and dense, and I was running the little car at a top speed. Not exactly a safe practice in the best of conditions, let alone on a dark and foggy night.

I recall high-tailing it around a large curve in the road, then noticing a vague flashing of red lights. Having, up to this point, a lot of experience with being pulled over for a variety of reasons by our boys in blue, I knew that I was caught, and quickly turned onto the shoulder of the highway. The police constable walked up to my then openned window and proceeded to give me the riot act.

He explained that he and his partner were parked on a side road, because the thick fog had made it unsafe for road travel, when all-of-a-sudden, their radar went off. Alarmed because they weren't able to actually see a vehicle pass by, they immediately hit the lights, because it was obvious that someone was well on their way to killing themselves or worse. He explained that they kept travelling behind this mysterious vehicle until they were able to see my brake lights and signal to turn onto the road shoulder.

He took my license and registration, and returned after a short time, with a speeding ticket in hand. He cited me for the unsafe speeds, urging me to slow down before I killed somebody. He also pointed out that my driving with one burnt out headlight in such a weather anomaly, was downright insane. He never gave me a ticket for that, although he probably should have, giving me a warning instead.

I've not driven like that since. I'm not denying that my right foot doesn't get heavy from time to time. I've had more than a healthy helping of speeding tickets since that time, all those years ago. I do believe that if you're very familiar with your vehicle and know it's capabilities as well as your own, that sometimes one can get away with breaking a few speed laws here and there, but I've never taken it to such a large degree.

I think I'm a very good driver, and I've come to this conclusion because I know that I'm not the best driver on the road. But by simply acknowledging my shortcomings, I'm actually a step above all those f*cking idiots on the road who are convinced that they don't have any problems at all. One fact, above all else, is if someone claims to have 'never been in an accident', you have to wonder, how many accidents they've caused...

The funniest fact though, has got to be all the f*cking retards who have 4x4's, who believe that they can come out of any situation unscathed. It is during many snowstorms, here in the Toontown district, that I've witness the most unscrupulous accidents by those behind the wheel of these four-wheel drive bohemoths. Many many MANY vehicle rollovers. I just gotta shake my head and laugh, whispering to myself "F*cking idiots!!"

I should come clean about an earlier comment, where I stated that I don't drive like a fool in bad weather anymore. I did a couple of years ago. It was before I purchased my Honda Ridgeline. I'd gone into the dealership on a busy Saturday afternoon. I was given the keys to a Ridgeline demo, and was allowed to take it out for a test drive without the salesman. This was good because, in all honesty, he was a huge prick of a salesman, very pushy, plus I doubt he'd have let me drive the truck as hard and as fast as I did on that blustery winter day. The roads were quite icy and wind-swept, and I got this silver truck up to a whopping 160km/hr (approximately 100mph). That is until I chickened out, plus I was fast approaching a section of highway which, to this day, is still notorious for vehicular accidents causing bodily harm or sometimes death.

Rest assured, I don't drive my baby like that at all. It's got a lot of gallup under that hood, but these days, I think it's better to look good than to race about looking like a f*cking fag!

Have a nice day, folks!!!

And for Christ's sake... Slow the f*ck down out there!