White People Are Stupid!

I am of the caucasoidal persuasion, therefore I'm confident that I can speak with some authority on this subject. Plus, for anyone who knows me quite well, you will already be familiar with the fact that I too, am no stranger to feats riddled with stupidity. So sit back and relax for a short spell and allow me to paint a mental image for you. A short story to properly convey the message I hope to pass on to all of you. Especially you "whities" who are in denial about the stupid shit that you're prone to do.

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This story involves two kids in their late teens, early twenties. First year college age. There is a young woman. Let's call her Darlene. I don't know why. It's the first name that popped in my head.

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Darlene is nervous about going on a date with Chad. Chad plays for the school football team. He's got a letterman jacket, and thinks he's jack shit. Pretty much like all the athletes do at school. He acts all tough, but when he's around Darlene, he's a big softy.

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Chad picks up Darlene from her sorority house, in his Jeep. A decked out, raised douche-bag 4x4. He opens her door for her and they speed off shortly thereafter. There's a big party happening on campus, but the couple drive off to a nearby clearing, just off the main highway leading out of town.

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"No use showing up right away, Darlene," Chad explains, "Better if we show up fashionably late." Nervously, the shy Darlene smiles and nods in agreement.

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"Plus," he adds, "It gives us a chance to get better acquainted." He then smiles and leans in for a kiss. The two are exchanging wet kisses for a few minutes, when suddenly the passion is interupted by a loud squeal. A high-pitched, metal-on-metal screech. Like fingernails drug across a classroom chalk board, this painful sound cannot be ignored.

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The two adolescents stop what they're doing, listening to the ringing silence, hoping to hear the loud obnoxious sound once more, but praying at the same time that they don't. After a few moments, the two resume making out, when a second loud racket interupts them once more. This time, however, it sounds closer. Panicked, they look around into the darkness. Frantically wiping condensation from the cool glass and squinting their eyes in a desperate attempt to make out dulled shapes in the moonlit night.

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The night can play tricks on the mind's eye, especially when trees are dancing about, waving with the breeze. Convinced there's nothing foul afoot, Chad resumes his position hovering over a nervous Darlene. When another screeching noise erupts. This time, Chad is quite pissed at what is taking place outside his vehicle, and decides to be macho and step outside to confront the person or thing responsible for squashing his efforts to makeout with the stunning Darlene.

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He exits, leaving Darlene behind. The windows fogged over once more, she is unable to see where Chad has gone. At this point, she is deathly afraid. Not knowing if Chad and his friends are playing a cruel joke, or if there indeed is something afoul. She listens attentively, hearing nothing but the ringing in her ears, then suddenly there's a loud screech. Only this time it's not the metal-against-metal sound heard previously, but a blood gurgling scream of agony from the lungs of Chad. His carcus now thrust upon the hood, his deathly stare the only thing Darlene can see through the front window of the four-wheel drive Jeep.

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Chad is a dead motherf*cker!!! And why? Because stupidity was bread into him. White people are notorious for "investigating" what the f*ck is going on. Chad and Darlene, are out in the middle of nowhere, gettin' it on, when they heard a frightening noise. So instead of turning the key and getting the f*ck out of there. Chad decided to be a dumb bastard and go look at what was afoot. Now he's a dead dumb bastard. A statistic.

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Notwithstanding that all white people are exactly that f*cking stupid. As I said before, I'm of the caucasoidal persuasion, but I can testify to the fact that if I'm out in the woods with my girl, making out, and I hear a bone-chattering, metal-on-metal screech, like a sharp blade being drug across a traffic sign or metal gate, there ain't a chance in hell that I'm getting out of my vehicle to confront whoever is bored enough that they need to terrorize me and my gal. F*CK THAT! I'm switchin' that key and getting the f*ck out! I can read. I can read the newspaper and find out about some other dummy who was gutted for "investigating" what was afoot.

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I was inspired by an episode of "Supernatural" that I was watching minutes before coming upstairs to write this piece. The television show is on the WB (Warner Bros. Network). Come to think of it. Most of those scenarios of guys getting macho and stepping out of the car to confront the unknown, exist primarily in those American television shows and the movies. You don't see that shit very often in Canadian programs. Not to say I watch a lot of Canadian programs. Maybe it's a cultural thing. Maybe because we have superior health care and education system in Canada, our youth are smart enough to not do stupid shit like that...

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Hmm... Nah! I'm a very smart person, myself, yet I'm guilty of doing a lot of other stupid shit. Nothing that would get my ass killed over, but a lot of stuff that's left my pride hunched over and bleeding in the corner.

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I'm not a fan of stupid people. I find them very difficult to relate to. Much like drunk people annoy me when I'm sober, only stupid people aren't drunk. They really don't have any excuse for their condition, other than they're stupid.

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However, there is one silver lining to stupidity. One should always try to look for even an inking of goodness in any situation, and yes. There is a grain of positivity in the condition of "stupidity".

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Stupidity isn't just restricted to the caucasian sect. Stupidity has no borders. Stupidity sees no colours. Anyone, despite their upbringing, country of origin, colour of their skin, religious beliefs or person credos, anyone and everyone has the potential to be stupid!!

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Need further proof? You Yankees voted for George W. Bush..., twice!

If Star Wars Taught Me Anything....

Okay. I get that all the trouble in the middle east is bad, made more so evident by gas prices perpetually rising. I drive a truck, while it's not a douche-bag 4x4 like most guys seem to own, and adding the fact I don't drive it like a douche-bag, it still costs a pretty penny to fill.  That's fine, I get it.

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However, as far as all these idiots running into the streets in protest of their government, I don't understand the point of all that shit. They're the people who allow these f*ckers into power, then when they disagree with their politics, they take to the streets and "peacefully protest", by smashing store fronts, looting, and physically bashing all those around them. How the f*ck is all that is considered "peaceful"?  Once more, I gotta say, I just don't understand.

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The nation's armies storm the streets in an effort to calm the crowd and protect those being victimized, lashing back at the protesters, and sometimes necessitating elevated enforcement strategies, which do include warfare tactics. This, I do understand.  These people complain about it.  They brought in on themselves, then accuse the government of unfair practices.  World news affiliates cover the demonstrations, often taking the side against government tyrrany.  The world alike watch in disbelief, sickened by the lethal force taken, yet watch in silence, too afraid to speak up themselves, whether their support is for or against.  No steps are taken towards rectification of the alleged atrocities. That shit, I do not understand.

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Bad people die. That's a fact of life. Bad people take to the streets, raise their fists against the establishment, fight and smash those around them, and are killed in the defense of those being assaulted, justifiably too, in my opinion. I do understand that. If someone had the balls big enough to attack my friends or my family, smashing, snatching and grabbing their possessions.  Maliciously assaulting them, being shot in the street, would be getting off pretty f*ckin' lucky..

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I don't want to sound like an egomaniacal tyrant, but so far I haven't heard any news reports about Libyan armies invading the homes of innocents, dragging them out and putting bullets in their heads. Just the lunatics assembling out in the streets.

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Besides which, it's f*cking Libya! Not the safest place in the world to begin with. I don't hear a lot of propaganda about how it's every bit as beautiful to visit as the Mayan Riviera. What the f*ck did you think was going to happen? If Star Wars has taught me anything in life, it is that angry sand people should be punished! Nobody complained when the Imperial Storm Troopers killed them off, so why should anyone shed a tear when they're being killed now?

Skip and His Brother, Lou

Guy I work with, hurt his leg on the weekend. He never indicated how, but I mentioned, twice, that if he didn't skip, he wouldn't have hurt himself. Both times, my words fell on deaf ears. Whether he was ignoring me or just wasn't paying attention, I'll never know.

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On the other hand, I began to think about skipping. Not as a pastime, as a man of my size would look ridiculous skipping everywhere he went. However, the thought of skipping occupied my mind for most of the day. My thoughts, more specifically, centered in on that children's song, "Skip To My Lou". Just what the hell did that mean? Skip to my lou. I know what skipping is, but what the hell is a lou?

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I know that in some terminology, a lou is a toilet. A toilet, however, isn't (and shouldn't) be associated with skipping. If you skip going to the bathroom, you're just going to end up pissing yourself somewhere down the road. Or even worse.

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Skip to my lou. I thought about the words. When I should've been concentrating on other tasks, I was thinking about the words. Skip. To my. Lou. If one does partake in the practice of skipping, does one necessarily need to skip with a lou? I know you can use a skip rope. Although, to this day, I can't do more than one or two jumps before ultimately tripping myself up. I don't know how professional athletes can use those freakin' things, and so proficiently, too. So without a rope, can you still skip without a lou? I say yes. Although, I can't say with any certainty that there's any benefits to skipping with or without a lou.

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So setting aside that arguement for a moment. If one does have a "lou", does one have to skip to their own lou? Or can you borrow a friends lou? Say you're a married couple. Does a husband and wife need to each get their own lou? Or can they share the lou? Are lou's unisex? I guess, they'd each need their own, if they wished to "skip to their lou" together. Can you get smaller lous, for children, I wonder? Is skipping to a lou, fun for the whole family? Do they come in diffrent colours?

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It's an utter enigma. With every question I ask, I'm greeted with another question or two. I've actually touched base on these query once before, in my last blog, but it fell on deaf ears. Just as this entry will likely do, but the mystery remains, nonetheless. Perhaps one day, scientists will make a discovery. Or better yet, because someone, somewhere, out there in the world knows just what the hell a "lou" is, because someone had to write the song, right? Perhaps there will be a documentary produced on the subject. Perhaps, it shall appear on the Discovery Channel. Likely, it won't have an entire week dedicated to it, like the sharks and whales have, but it'll be there, all the same. In all it's glory. Maybe even big name celebrities, will appear on the program, skipping to their lous, with bright smiles and wide open eyes. Then the world will join together in peace and harmony, and all the violence in the middle east will be come to an end and gas prices will come down.

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Yeah... That would be kinda great. But I doubt that shit'll ever happen. I think in the meantime, I'm going to continue driving. Screw the skipping. That shit will just get you hurt, anyway. Just ask the guy I work with. He'll tell ya!!

The Money Has Made You Soft, Boy!!

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I've suspected for years that professional athletes were getting soft in respects of practicing their craft. Often they are sidelined by petty shit like a dislocated finger or a bruised thigh. Bullshit stuff that would garner them an ass-kicking by childhood friends back-in-the-day or even more so, by those surpassed in the pursuit of glory.

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I've heard stories about pro athletes, hockey players, more specifically, who'd spend hours and hours outside in homemade rinks, playing the game they loved most. Hockey! No matter the temperature outside, they would, along with neighbourhood children, play for hours, re-enacting their favourite moments of NHL games past. Dreaming, themselves, of one day playing their beloved game for a living.

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So fast-forward to this weekend. Tomorrow afternoon there is something called a "Heritage Classic" taking place in Calgary, Alberta, CANADA. There was an expose on the event on the Weather Channel. Covered by this medium, as the game in question is to take place outside, in front of thousands of screaming (and freezing) fans. The teams to lock horns, the Montreal Canadiens and the Calgary Flames. The interviewer spoke with several players from both teams, inquiring how they might battle the frigid temperatures. With smiles on their faces, they revealed a couple trade secrets, which include heaters for the players on the bench. As well, they added, they'd have to "work a little harder on the ice". One player, even went so far as to reveal that during his childhood, growing up in Thunder Bay, Ontario, that he was used to the mercury dipping down to minus thirty degrees Celcius.

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Watching intently, I was curious as to how cold it was in Calgary, that would have these gladiators of the ice so concerned. So I waited and waited for a country-wide forecast. When the current temperature was revealed, I was almost floored. Not by the low low temperature, but by the way the media and the players alike, was making the even sound like it was the end of the world. Minus seven degrees Celcius, was the temperature posted. That's about 19 degrees Farenheit, for you American readers.

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Minus seven degrees? That's it?!? I f*cking wear shorts in that kind of weather. Sometimes no jacket, I find it so f*cking warm. And you guys, with your multi-million dollar contracts, who used to play for hours outside for FREE in all sorts of weather conditions.., you f*ckers have the audacity to complain and, in some cases, fear the "bitter" cold? I say for myself and all those hopefuls you left behind growing up, all those who's dreams of playing in the NHL one day were dashed, I give you a very hearty "F*CK YOU!!!"

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I can't skate, nor did I ever wish for a career in the NHL, but I've had many a dream dashed, and while it hasn't left me bitter or even resentful, I can appreciate the opportunities, none-the-less. You f*cking athletes, have to remember. You're playing a f*cking game. A f*cking game. You get to "play" for a living. While others have to put their nose to the grindstone, and break their f*cking backs to make ends meet, you get to "play a game" for a living. Have fun and reap the benefits. Live in your big houses, drive your sporty cars, sleep with your gorgeous wives, while the rest of us, work on not having a f*cking heart attack or a nervous breakdown. When the temperature dips a few degrees, we have to work even harder. Where do you get off complaining about anything?

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You f*ckers have gotten soft. The money, has made you soft. You've forgotten that, it's a privilege to play the game you grew up loving so much, as your career. So the next time you dislocate your finger, or get a little bruise on your shin, or the temperature dips a little, just you never mind. Suck it up and just f*cking do it. Play your f*cking heart out! Show us, the fans, that you deserve to be in that spotlight. Give us those memorable moments. So that we can look back with fond memories and inspire our children so they can replay those memorable moments for hours and hours out on the rink, in those mind-numbing teeth-chattering sub-zero temperatures.

Sand In Every Orifice

Flipping through the channels this morning, I see another third world country, this time Yemen, has violence in the streets. More specifically, there's thousands upon thousands, maybe even millions of people gathered in the streets, protesting... I don't even know what the f*ck they're protesting. I think every time a journalist, dumb enough to be on the ground, comes close to asking one of these confused f*cks as to what they're protesting, they end up getting punched in the head.

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What could they possibly be upset about? All the f*cking sand? Probably. I know I'm forever finding that shit in every pocket and every orifice when I return home from the beach. However, it was my choice to go to the beach in the first place. Just like it's their choice to live in the desert. I say if you don't like it.., then get the f*ck out!!

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I can't say for sure what the Egyptians were so upset about. I think it was something to do with poor internet services and the President of the country. As if, he were the man in charge of the internet. What the hell do they need the internet for, in Egypt. Do they even have electricity in the middle east? Furthermore, does anyone really need the internet? It's pretty much a complete waste here in the civilized world too. You have your Facebook (complete waste of time), Twitter (waste of time), folks like me, injecting moronic insights like this into the world wide web (not so much a waste of time) and then there's internet porn (the jury's still out on that one).

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The Egyptians and all these other countries can't be upset about not getting internet porn, as I don't think they're even interested in sex. At least, I don't think they are, otherwise why would they force their women to wear those awful (and unflattering) burka's? Plus, as I understand it, the men are only interested in 40 virgins, and if you've ever seen the floozies on the internet, none of them are virginal.

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I figured out a way to get these people to put down their stones and fists, and it doesn't involve clubs, tanks, or bullets. Instead, it involves balls. Not the testicular kind, as if any of the protesters had testicles, they'd be smart enough to stay home and avoid all this retardation. No, the balls I'm referring to are soccer balls.

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Using science, as I have in the past, deeming soccer to not only be gay, but turning people gay, I interject that if soccer balls are introduced to these screaming crowds, that intermural gameplay will soon break out. As the people are engaged in soccer, the violence should (in theory) reduce as well. The cause being that gay people don't have lower levels of testosterone, which causes much of the aggression in the world. The most gay people protest about is the want for marriage and discounts on KY Jelly. There is a downside to this plan, however, and there's always a downside to any plan. The downside is, because it's the middle east, when they engage in the inevitable butt-sex, because there's sand everywhere, it'll be like f*cking with a condom made of sandpaper. It might be slightly amusing at first, but in the end (pardon the pun) it'll suck pretty hardcore.

The End Draws Near

The snow came back with a vengeance today, didn't it fellow Saskatonian's? Holy shit!! It was sunshiny and brisk when I went into my work today at around half past twelve, but when I came out, a thick blanket of snow covering everything.

Of course, that shit's expected when spring draws near. The weather warms up, giving everything a chance to thaw and melt. Then Mother Nature throws a curve ball and dumps a blanket of snow on everyone. It rarely comes as a surprise to me every year, yet most around me always seem so surprised. I just don't get that.

It was a nice snowstorm, though. The kind that makes me want to go for a long walk. Only long walks are better with company, and I haven't anyone to walk with, but no matter. When I arrived at home, I noticed my cat, Monkey, calmly looking out the front window. Eagerly awaiting my return home, as he does on a daily basis.

Times weren't always this calm though. I recall the first day it snowed. The look of panic on his face was priceless. I wish I had my camera at the ready. He was born at the beginning of May (2010), so he never got to see any of the white stuff. So when the first snowfall came, I found him nervously cowering on the chair that faces away from my front window. His eyes were wide, pupils dialated, and every few moments, he'd sneak a peek over the chair, to watch the snow fall on the front yard and the street. I pet him and reassured that the world was not coming to an end. That Armageddon was not upon us. Days later, I'd take him out and let him investigate the cold snow himself and since then he seems fine with it all.

Not everyone reacts well to the snow, though. There was one elderly fellow that caught my eye on the way home tonight. I needed some milk so I ducked into the Extra Foods just down the street from my house. When I pulled into the crowded parking lot, I noticed a mid-80's stationwagon vacating a parking spot near the doors. I was tempted to drive down and snag that spot, but opted to go another avenue. Glad I did, too. As I was walking into the store, I noticed the stationwagon still blocking traffic and the man out trying to re-attach his front marker light. Apparently, as he was pulling out his bohemoth of a car, he clipped the truck next to him.

"If you can't handle a vehicle that big," I thought to myself quietly, "You shouldn't f*ckin' drive it anymore!"

I was only in the store for maybe ten or fifteen minutes, before I returned to my truck. I decided to pull around to the far off exit, as traffic was a real bitch. In my transit to the exit, I seen the same old man, in the same old stationwagon/land yacht, parked in a new place. Only this time, he had all new problems. It seems that in his haste to exit the parking lot, he managed to get his vehicle lodged atop of a meridian. Being that there is snow covering everything, I can't recall what is in the place of those large meridians in the parking lot, however his right front tire was not touching the ground. My best estimation would be: He's f*cked! His best bet from this point on is to surrender his driver's license. No more driving for this delusional f*cker. Get off the road before he kills somebody.

When it snows, every one believes themselves to be invincible. Especially the f*ckers with four-wheel drives. Most of the vehicle rollovers I've ever seen during the winter months, were by people driving 4x4's. They seem to think that because all four tires are driving the vehicle, that the laws of physics don't apply. Guess what dummy's? They DO apply. They're f*cking laws, after all!!!

Chair Shot To The Head

How am I supposed to try and move past when I dream about her every night?

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A lot of the dreams I have, always seem so real. Like it's an alternate universe that I'm visiting every night when I close my eyes. Some visits I can recall, others remain behind a vail of secrecy. Only small hints are revealed, from time-to-time.

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Last night, at some point, I must've inexplicably received a chair shot to the head. (For those unfamiliar, it is exactly like what it sounds like.) This is something that I do remember from a past dream. It was a couple of years ago. I had one of my few "wrestling dreams" (I know I'm going to catch flack from this admission.) and in the dream, I'd received a chair shot to the head. A real nasty one. I never got my hand up to lessen the blow at all. I remember in the dream, my forehead opening up like a piece of fruit getting crushed, and the blood pouring out moments later. I can only imagine a similar occurence in the dream I had this morning. For when I awoke this morning, I noticed in the bathroom mirror, that like the dream I had before, this time as well, I had a dried trickle of blood running from my hairline down to my upper lip. A crimson stream that had dried on my face, defying the laws of gravity in the sense that I don't sleep standing up. That if the event occurred in the position of which I sleep (on my side), the stream should've run off to either side of my face.

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F*cking weird, isn't it? Sometimes I rather enjoy the realism that some of my dreams possess. As in the statement at the top of this page. Though it makes me miserable, I still enjoy spending time with her... However, when there are so many unanswered questions when I awake, like the latter story, I don't enjoy the realism so much.

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I've woken up in the past with cuts, bruises, and alike. Just the other night, I received a sturdy punch to the face during a dream in which I was a witness to a crime. I was finishing up in a bathroom stall (I won't get into specifics). When some sort of drug deal was going down outside my stall. I remember not paying much attention, as I had my own agenda. However, when I exited the bathroom stall, it came as a shock to the players of the drug deal gone bad. I was immediately surrounded and the torturing interrogation began. Unanswered questions resulted in a few body shots (no bruises) and one earth-shattering right cross to my jaw, which still f*cking hurts. It's even a little swollen still.

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These dreams I can do without. Now if you'll excuse me... I have to go wash the blood off my face. Have a nice day!!

My How Times Have Changed

In the last few days, I've been copying some of my old blogs from other sites. In doing so, I've been perusing and skimming over some of those writings, and some are okay, while others are down right terrible. One particular posting I happened upon, was one written a little over 5 years ago. And yes, I can't believe I've been doing this for that long either.

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This particular blog, was based on the concept of "love" and my theory of what that meant. I equated it to a wrestling move. More specifically, it was Jake "The Snake" Robert's devastating DDT. I explained how when the maneuver was first introduced, it was the most devastating move in wrestling up to that date. However, in the decades since, wrestlers are kicking out of DDT's left, right and center. The once dangerous move, is now as dangerous as a slobbering puppy dog.

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I equated love to this. That people drop the L-word, far too often, and for stupid shit like "Ooh. I love this song." Or, "Ooh, I love ice cream." My opinion of love remains the same for the most part. To love something or someone, means you can't see your life without that thing or person in it. I believe that people will live just fine without that song or ice cream.

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However, in reading the blog, I noticed also, that I didn't know what the f*ck I was talking about. How can someone who's never been in love, even write anything about love? It's like writing a book about proper child rearing, but having never been a parent. Where do they get the gall?

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It's been five years, almost to the date, since I wrote that. I can admit that infatuations have come and gone during that time, but only one has touched my life in such a way that I can't imagine my life without them. So much, that I even went out a month ago and purchased an engagement ring to propose marriage to this woman. But as the story goes. It was too little too late. She belongs to another now, and my heart can't be any more crushed than it is at this moment.

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In my life, I've managed to break my bones and tear the shit out of my muscles and none of those distresses can compare with the pain I have in my chest right now. I've read that "broken hearts never mend", and perhaps that is so. I hope it's not true.

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I have said that I couldn't see myself marrying anyone else. This is as true to me as I am sitting here tapping away on this computer. But you never know. Maybe ten years down the road... I'll have another chance... The times. They're always changing.

FISTING: No Joking Matter

Holy f*ck!!! I wrote a blog about how I located some misplaced keys between the cushions of my sofa. In which I compared the search to "fisting a polar bear". But when I asked for feedback on the written article, do you think anyone actually commented on whether or not I'd constructed the piece with any degree of satisfaction? NO! Every single piece of feedback I received, except for one (thanks T____), dealt with the comparison not the document.

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Most folks commented on the fisting. A majority thought it was inappropriate. A few others thought it was rude and obnoxious. A one or two, didn't know what the f*ck "fisting" was. For that couple, I simply say, "Google it!" Wonderful thing, Google is, you really can find just about everything on it, but take heed as the afore mentioned folks who thought it to be inappropriate, rude and obnoxious, are correct in a strange sort of way.

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Now I don't want to get off on a tangent here, but... If you can't approach fisting with a sense of humour, then what's the point of living. It's not particularly a practice that I'd wish to partake in, and especially believe that if one does, that it be approached delicately and with care. No one on the receiving end is going to be very amused if in the midst of romance, you go "Jim Henson" on their pooter.

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Admittedly, the whole procedure seems to be more dangerous than beneficial, from what I've read on the subject. Plus, I think I would be reluctant to spend any time with someone who could only be stimulated by such practices. My hands aren't that big, but I tire easily.

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Still, though, the whole idea of fisting, seems funny to me. Whether it's a nervous chuckle or a gut-wrenching keeled-over in my chair laughter, The fact that there are people who got so strung up over this comment, makes it even more funny. The mere fact that some meaningless bullshit that I mentioned in passing, could cause such an uproar, to me is f*cking hilarious. In fact, most people who take life too f*cking serious, make me laugh.

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Whatever position you hold in life, wherever you may be on the age scale, if you can't spare a moment or two to simply laugh at the retardedness that is life, then there's definitely something wrong with you, and the seriousness and the stress is going to make you not long in this life. So take a moment for clarity. Take the fist out of your ass, and laugh a little. After all, life is too short!!!

Frantic OR The Polar Bear Incident

For the first time in years, I lost my keys. There's nothing more unnerving than having to be somewhere, but having no idea where the keys to your car or house are. While I do have a spare set of keys to both, I have never been able to leave the house without both sets. My best guess as to a reason for this, would stem to back when I went to university.

Having come home one weekend, I'd unwittingly left my residence in Regina, Saskatchewan, with only one set of keys. Of course, this would be the one time when I'd lock the keys inside my car. So a Sunday afternoon was wasted driving down to the Queen City to pick up my spare set, instead of spending it with my then-girlfriend, having mad-coitus all afternoon. Thinking back now, the afternoon of driving to Regina, wasn't so bad. That ex-girlfriend was a f*cking animal....

Anyway, the same thing happened to me this very day. All except leaving my keys in another city and having some madwoman constantly ripping off my clothes. Oh how we long for those golden days... But no! I had to leave, and though it was only for a few errands, I've managed to train my mind to avoid leaving the house..., just in case.

Now, it was reported that actor Charlie Sheen tore apart a New York City hotel room, rumoured because he had lost a $26,000 wrist watch. I remember the media raising such a ruckus because he'd done this, and in the meantime scared some foolish porn actress in the bathroom. First of all, who are we to judge? If anyone reading this, lost anything worth $26,000 in a hotel room, I'm pretty sure things would be ripped apart into shreds too; and secondly, IF anyone reading this (and this goes for the media too), could afford to pay for the damages incrued through the destruction of a hotel room, I'm sure they would do it. It positively sounds like a hoot. On the bright side, I'm willing to bet that today, that hotel room is the cleanest room that hotel has, or at least, the least-filthy of the rooms they have.

I, too, have frantically searched high and low for lost articles. Whether it be a set of keys, a lost ticket, or even a $20 bill. When something is lost, but you swear you know where it "has to be", one tends to toss apart their home, like college boys during a panty-raid.

This time was no different, only that because I'd be the cleaning up the aftermath, I was a bit more careful. Lifting, pulling, stretching things to one side, periodically paused by my standing in the middle of the room, with eyes closed, trying to retrace the steps of the previous 12 hours, then on to lifting, pulling, and stretching once more.

Finally, I happened upon my sofa. The odds of my keys working their way out of my pockets and pressed deep into the cavernous crevasses of the couch were astronomical, but if "Jeffy's Law" has taught me anything over my lifetime, it is to never think about the odds... Or maybe that was the survival statistics of surviving an asteroid belt while flying the Millenium Falcon. In either case, I was going in.

Pulling back on the cushions and pressing my face down into the cushions, I was careful to not block out all the light that was raining down behind me from the eastern facing windows. Just as I was about to surrender to the powers that be, who sought it best to steal away my keys, mine eyes caught a glint. A mere shimmer. Not even a shimmer, really, but a slight reflection of light. I forced my hand down into the darkness, feeling the coolness of the fabric on my hands, it was somehow calming, but at the same time, felt a little wrong. It felt like I was fisting a polar bear.

I caught the key-ring with my finger tips and I was quickly on my way.

Shooting Stars

Today began a lot like most days for me. I slept in, but not too long, as my cat, Monkey, was sure to wake me up to feed him. Then I was up for good. Watched a little telly and had some breakfast before shooting off to work.

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That's when things began to get a little odd. By all accounts, there was nothing strange going on at all, but for some reason, my eyes were playing tricks on me. For instance, walking down the sidewalk that ran parallel to the street I was driving on, I saw someone who was the spitting image of Ludwig Von Beethoven. Of course, I knew this was impossible, as that guy's been dead for centuries. Plus, why the hell would he be in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan of all places to be if he were to rise from the dead for only one day.

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A short while later, as I walked down the corridor to the washrooms, I believe I saw Jesus. Not some hispanic dude named Jesus (hay-zues), but the actual messiah, son-of-God guy. I'm not a religious fellow, and don't poke fun at those who are, but this guy looked just like Jesus Christ. Granted he wasn't wearing white robes or anything, choosing bargain bin denim jeans and a swanky sweat shirt, but it was definitely him. I've seen pictures, and this guy was the spitting image.

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After that, when returning from running some envelopes to the courier bin, I discovered George Peppard was in the building. "Now this is getting ridiculous," I thought to myself, knowing that A*Team star has been dead for a few decades now. On closer inspection, and no, I didn't get up close in their business, but I did recognize that "George" was actually a tall woman with a really shitty haircut. (Frankly, I've never understood why woman choose to get those brush cut hairdos. Even if they are a dyke, what's the point of not wanting to look good?)

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Now earlier in the day, I was notified that I'd had some mail in my old mail slot located just upstairs from where I was now working. This seemed a little strange, as all the mail comes through the office where I'm now working. If they knew I was receiving mail, then why the f*ck was it still going upstairs? Anyways, I eventually snuck up to that office when I had a spare moment. I retreived a pay stub from two weeks ago and a large stiff cardboard envelope. I glanced at the name on the return address and recognized the name: DIEHL.

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A few months back, if anyone's been keeping track of this albeit, questionable blog, you may recall that a friend from work's daughter, was producing a movie here in Saskatoon. I was invited to the set one day and met the lead actor on the project. Mr. John Diehl who's starred in a plethera of projects on the small and large screen. Television programs including Miami Vice and The Shield, as well as movies which include Stargate and Stripes.

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We'd exchanged pleasantries that day, which was nice. What really blew my mind, though, was his remembering me, by name, the next evening when I, once more was visiting the set. I wrote about both encounters with Mr. Diehl, in this blog back around the middle of October 2010. So fast forward to today, I receive this stiff envelope with "DO NOT BEND" warning stickers on it. I kind of guessed that it might be an autographed photo, and sparing no moments when I'd returned to my office in the Purchasing Department of my work, I carefully opened up the encasement and retreived an 8"X10" photograph of the afore mentioned Diehl.

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Written across his brow in golden ink was a short message. He commented on reading what I'd written in this very blog. He admired that I was able to write out my thoughts as I had (and have), adding that it was something he was never able to do. They were very kind words, which impresses me even now, as I re-read them. I'm deeply moved (and blown away) that this man, this actor, this... movie star, not only took the time to learn my name, but took the time to read a couple of short paragraphs that I'd written, and furthermore, taken a few moments more, in his hometown of Los Angeles, California, to jot down some kind words for me.

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I've said this before. I've met quite a few celebrities, and as cool as they were, I doubt very much that if they had a moment or two to spare, that they'd even remember anything about me. Not to sell myself short, but come on. A ruggedly-handsome fellow like myself, in a backwards jerk-water town like Saskatoon? What's there to remember? But Mr. Diehl was kind enough (and cool enough) to do just that. He's number one in my books. That's for sure.

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And this concludes my brushes with greatness on this particular day. I wonder who I'll see tomorrow. Michael Jackson? Maybe Elvis. That'd be cool...