Bucking Tradition

For many many years, I've enjoyed spending Christmas Eve alone.  I've never had anyone special to share my holidays with, so this has never been an issue.  In the past, this tradition involved my getting very high, eating a pizza and watching television, usually viewing "Die Hard 1 &2" and "Lethal Weapon", both being excellent "man-style" Christmas movies.

As the years went on, certain aspects were phased out.  No longer do I partake in illicit drugs that will put me into a state of numbness, nor do I even dabble with alcohol anymore.  Neither has a positive affect on me, mentally.  Christmas is depressing enough for the single person, without having to intensifying this emotion.  Still the consumption of pizza continued.

These days, I don't even hardly bother with the movies anymore, opting to watch them on a predetermined schedule, instead.  Actually, it's less predetermined and more whimsical, but the pizza remains.

This year, I've already viewed my "Die Hard's" and oddly, I don't feel like watching "Lethal Weapon", but the pizza remained.  This year, however, due to a commitment to play Santa Claus, I've had to bump up the consumption of my Christmas pizza.  I arranged to pick it up at noon today, in hopes of spending the afternoon, eating and watching TV.  Fate, however, had other plans for me, and instead of picking up my meal and returning in a timely fashion, the battery in my truck decided to die, leaving me stranded in front of Costco for nearly an hour before the tow truck driver arrived.

Pizza cost $14 and change.  Thirty-plus minutes seemed like an eternity as last minute shoppers aggressively honked with the intention that I move the f*ck out of their way.  "And a Merry Christmas to you too, sir." I thought, watching each driver creep past me, with finger extended for my viewing pleasure.

Then a little chubby white-haired bloke pulled up beside me in a beat-up old tow truck that had clearly seen better days.  He hopped out and waddled his fat ass around to the raised hood on my truck and gave my battery a quick jump.  Accepting only cash, I was forced to return inside the Costco and visit the ATM which, subsequently, only distributed $50 bills.

"I hope you can break a fifty." I said, returning to my spot outside, next to the chubby elf-like gentleman.  He turned and smiled saying, "It's $50 and change, but..." he paused, looking down at the crisp new plastic Canadian fifty dollar bill, "Aah.  It's Christmas.  Let's call it an even fifty."  With that he scooped the bill from my hand, hopped back behind the wheel of his beat up monstrosity and disappeared into the distance.

I'm bucking tradition this year.  Eating about eight hours earlier than usual.  Spending $50 for a job that, literally, took less than 60 seconds, and will most likely be buying a brand new f*cking battery, shortly after Christmas, for a truck that has less than 48,000 km on it.  Go big or go home, I guess, huh..?  Merry Christmas one and all!!

Peeved

Some people have the misfortune of being allergic to pets.  I would consider myself a dog person, although I have a tremendous allergy to them.  Even the hypo-allergenic dogs, cause major discomfort in my sinuses, producing red teary eyes and a stuffy nose.  This may be good fortune for me, as I will never be the owner of anything as faggy as a labra-doodle.

Another pet I am intolerant to are pet-peeves.  I have many of them, but the ones that seem to plague me the most, are the two which, on paper, seem the most trivial of the lot.  The first is watching a favourite television program, then having to sit through three, four, five and in some instances, I've noticed, six minutes of commercials.  The commercials themselves, aren't the pet peeves.  Everyone needs to sell shit.  I understand that.  If I owned anything of value that needed to be sold to the masses, I'd advertise too, but what irks the shit outta me, is after sitting through the mind-numbing commercials, realizing that the program in which I'm currently watching, is f*cking recorded.  F*ck!

The other one, which sparked my creative flame, is inserting the DVD or Bluray into the machine, moving back to my viewing spot and wiggling my sexy ass into my chair, seating myself absolutely perfect then reaching for the remote which is missing from it's spot.  Desperately, I look around, searching for it, trying not to move out of fear of losing my absolute comfort level.  That's when I finally look up and see it across the room, sitting prominently next to the player.  F*ckitty-f*ck.

I'm sure there are more peeves that piss me off and I will likely offer those up to you in the future.  For now, I have to leave.  The main menu music has been echoing through my house for the last fifteen minutes or so, while I've been tapping away at this blog.  It's a catchy tune, but it's beginning to drive me a little crazy.  I hate it when I get a tune stuck in my head.  I guess that'd be a pet-peeve of mine.

Christmas Jobber

Strangely, I'm in more of a Christmas spirit this year, than I have been in the past.  Being that I'm a single fella, I find the holiday season to be most depressing.  It's great when you have someone to share it with, and since the birth of my nephew, Jake, and his little brother, Chad, who is experiencing his first Christmas this year, the experience is a little less abrasive.  This year, however, seems a little more content, and I suspect it's because I've been bestowed the "honour" of portraying the jolly fat man for my friend's children and some others.  Nervous, I am, but somewhat excited, as well.

So with my elevated Christmas spirit, I've been humming and singing more Christmas tunes than usual, and in doing so, their lyrics have drawn my attention and stirred my imagination.  For example, the Christmas carol, "We Wish You A Merry Christmas".  Particularly the lines, "Now bring us some figgy pudding, and bring it right here!"  Despite all the good will towards everyone during this season, these lyrics seem quite demanding and out of context.  How good could figgy pudding really be that it would cause people to forgo all good manners and demand that they be served this tasty treat?  There's a lot of tasty foods associated with the Christmas season, but none has forced me to demand "Bring it here on the double, damn it!"  Judging by the picture above, it does look quite inviting, although it may be too sweet for even my palate.  Not knowing what it was, exactly, I looked it up.

Imagine my surprise when I learned that the fig is a fruit associated with the Ficus plant.  For those unaware, I purchased a small Ficus plant as a house warming gift for some friends a year or two ago, and it has since then grown from a few inches tall to now touching the high ceiling of their home.  I'm not aware of whether it bears any small fruit or not, but the plant is massive, and knowing the culinary gifts that these new home owners possess, I'm certain that if there are any figs on this Ficus (aka "The Stupid Jeff Plant" as they affectionately call it), then some tasty treats may be appearing at a social gathering in the future, and knowing M______, she'll probably add bacon to the recipe somewhere...

There's another carol that sparked my attention, specifically "Winter Wonderland".  I don't know why this is considered a Christmas carol, as it fails to mention Christmas, by name, anywhere in the song, and being a resident of Canada, I know for a fact that winter extends a lot longer than just the few weeks before Christmas.  Most years, the snow flies at the end of October or early November and stays until early-to-mid April, causing several weeks and months to be a "winter wonderland".  This isn't the only facet of the song that curbs my attention.  There are some lyrics that I've found questionable for many years and am just now addressing in this forum.

"In the meadow, we can build a snowman / We can pretend he's Parson Brown".  I don't know who Parson Brown is, but that's no matter, it's the next couple of lines that piqued my interest.  "He'll say: Are you married? / We'll say: No man! / But you can do the job / When you're in town".  You can do the job?  To me, this makes her sound like a tramp (or worse).  If she's hot, then I'll happily apply for the job, but long distance travel seems like too much of a hassle for just a booty call.

Lastly, I must address the song "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town".  Seeing as how I'm going to be acting the part of jolly Saint Nick, I should get behind some of the lyrics to better portray the role.  "He sees you when your sleeping"...  Creepy.  "He knows when you're awake / He knows when you've been bad or good".  Uhm, "Stalker"?!?

I'll dial back the creepy stalker aspect of the role and play him as the happy jolly fat guy that Hollywood has made him for the last fifty some years.  It's what the kids know and love.  I've been walking about the house today, practicing the belly-jiggling laugh and the voice.  My cat, Monkey, is looking at me like I'm high, a little pissed at me, too, for not sharing whatever it was I smoked.  I'm not too worried.  Some have shown their support for my doing this.  I just hope I don't f*ck it all up and ruin the illusion of Santa Claus for them, like it was shattered for me when I was a little kid.

Here's to WISHING YOU ALL A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS....!!

Reindeer Games

So you should already know Dasher, Dancer, Blinky and Vixen.  Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen.  No, wait!  I'm pretty sure Blinky is one of the Pac-Man ghosts.  So who am I missing?  Uh...  Prancer!!  What the hell kind of name is Prancer?  Suitable for a reindeer, I suppose.  And I always thought Cupid was that fat kid that shot people with arrows on St. Valentine's Day.  Someone's pulling double duty, maybe?

The most famous reindeer of them all, though is Rudolph, of course.  That little fetal-alcohol-syndrome reindeer, born to alcoholic parents, hence the big fat rosy-red nose.  Luckily for Santa Claus, his handicap benefited all on that fateful night that almost grounded the jolly fat man and his team of reindeer.

According to the song, however, young Rudolph was victim to bullying.  Shunned by his peers because of his glowing appendage.  Teased, mocked and bullied, rejected from playing any of the games that they'd play on a regular basis.

I'm sure the little reindeer had entertained thoughts of leaving the confinement of the North Pole, heading south to  civilization, where no one knew him, and starting over, but hesitated because of the extreme limitations bestowed upon a four-legged creature whose only skills were flying and firing up a glowing red nose.  Unfortunately, when you're born a magical reindeer, no matter your skill set, your vocational options are pretty limited.

So on that fateful foggy eve, it came as some surprise when the jolly elf himself, Santa Claus, came a knocking on the barn door and "volun-told" Rudolph to guide his sleigh that night.  The song suggests that St. Nick asked Rudolph to guide his sleigh, but being that he owned his ass, it was high-time to return the favour from years of free food and shelter.

So now, his very existence validated by the big boss man himself, the other reindeer now honoured and respected Rudolph because of his glowing red nose.  So upon the return from that global tour, they now accepted him into the fold and allowed him to play the very reindeer games, that they prevented him from participating in all those previous years.

This song has always pissed me off some, because of the sudden change of attitude by the eight reindeer.  To bully someone because of a physical handicap, only to then accept them just because one person vouched for them being cool?  If I were Rudolph, suddenly faced with a new important role on the team, so important now, that I'd inspired someone in the world to compose a song about me, I'd tell those reindeer to "piss off".  They could now join ME in MY reindeer games.

What kind of games can a reindeer play anyway?  They only have hooves and antlers.  Doesn't leave much room for anything but running and locking up horns.  Sounds like a lot of work if you ask me, and Rudolph was probably better for never having to had played at all.

So have yourselves a VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS, everyone.  Now that you know more of the facts, enjoy singing about the most famous reindeer of them all, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, with your loving families around the ol' Christmas tree. Wish you all the best in 2013.

Religious Persecution

In recent years, the world has been going to hell in a hand basket.  Everyone is tip-toeing around, afraid to say certain phrases or make certain gestures for fear of making someone uncomfortable.  People aren't allowed to politely wish someone a Merry Christmas, as it may offend someone of another faith.  Schools no longer present Christmas pageants for adoring parents to watch their younglings stumble and stammer over difficult dialogue and terrible costuming, for it may offend someone who doesn't believe in the birth of Christ. Churches aren't even aloud to display manger scenes on the front lawns of their own grounds.  Soon it'll be taboo to position a Christmas tree in the front window if the curtains are to be left open.  Simply put...  What the f*ck is wrong with people these days?

I've never backed down from the admission that I don't believe in God or Jesus or any of that religious hooey.  I don't fault others for believing in it.  If it gives you peace, love and happiness to believe in an invisible man who created everything in the world, and nothing was ever created by mankind themselves, then that's you're prerogative.  I don't need to believe it, nor do I give two shits if you do.  I will say, though, some of my fondest memories of growing up, were from performing, albeit poorly, in those Christmas pageants.

(*I know it's politically correct to say "humankind" now, but I don't give a shit.)

I can respect any person who felt it necessary to flee from whatever backwards country or regime where their own self-preservation felt threatened.  I can respect the fact that they have found solace and safety within the borders of Canada or the U.S. or any country that embraces free will and expression.  I cannot respect any person who relocates to my country or any of those listed, and finds it necessary to impose their beliefs and wills on us, just so they don't feel persecuted.  That makes these selfish motherf*ckers no better than the oppression they fled from.  If some middle-eastern bloke wishes to wear a turban and pray to the east twice a day, that's fine, but if I choose to wish you a Merry Christmas, then suck it up and say thank you.  It's not the words themselves that mean the most.  It's the good will behind those words.  It's so rare to find genuine kindness in people anymore, that when this time of year roles around, if someone expresses pleasantries towards another, those words should be met with the same form of kindness.  DON'T raise a stink and start a campaign to ban the words.

Words do have multiple meanings, for f*ck sake!  Even the F-word itself has multiple meanings, as you can learn from this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26UA578yQ5g 

Another example would be the word "fag".  If you go to Dictionary.com, you'll see one of the many meanings for the word, is a verb to describe one growing weary or tired from a laborious task.  Another meaning is to fray the end of a rope.  When used as a noun, it is used to describe a cigarette or a defective piece of woven cloth.  As you read this, were you aware of these meanings or were you like me, and only believed the word to be an offensive term bestowed upon the gay community.  I'd always thought it was a bastardized term derived from the meaning of "happiness" or "fun", like in the Flintstones Theme (ie. ...You'll have a yabba-dabba-doo time, you'll have a gay... ol'... time).  Even the word "faggot" means: A bundle.  Be it sticks, cloth, or even iron bars.  I even read that it refers to balled up pork bound by herbs and breading then deep fried.  That faggot sounds delicious!

Another example was presented last year during the NBA 2011-2012 season, where a player of Asian decent showed great promise and agility.  He'd been overlooked and sold short by teams before, and even his new team, the New York Knickerbockers, had considered cutting him, but after a barrage of injuries to the roster, The Knicks gave Jeremy Shu-How Lin an opportunity to play, and the sensational Season of Lin-sanity and Lin-vincibility was born.  Jeremy proceeded to play absolutely Lin-credible for many of the games that were to follow.  Then there was the game where it was destined for the New York Knicks to lose a game.  A color-commentator remarked that the opposing team had found a "chink in their armor".  Well the accusations began to fly that this commentator was a bigot and so forth.  If you look up the word "chink", it clearly refers to: a crack, cleft or fissure;  a narrow opening; to breach, rent or cut.  It even refers to the sound of two glasses coming together, as in a toast.  At the bottom of the page, it does mention that it's also a disparaging and offensive term for someone of Asian decent.  But come on.  Shit like that is only used by the uneducated and uncultured folks.  You know...?  Like rednecks!

In the city where I reside, the city transit have digital message boards that display the route of the bus, as well as other messages.  If our local hockey team is doing well, the message may read "Go Blades!!!"  I'm not a Blades fan, but I'm not going to raise a stink over the fact that others like and support the team.  On July 1st, they read "Happy Canada Day!"  That's cool.  At during the Christmas season, they read "Merry Christmas!!!" and that is fine with me.

If anyone is a hater and does not approve of the message of good will, then may I make a suggestion.  Instead of disagreeing and raising an Anti-Christmas campaign and threatening a lawsuit, as this local f*ck-nut, Ashu Solo is doing in Saskatoon, do us all a favour and either go the f*ck back to whatever shit-hole you came from or step in front of one of these city buses that you're so offended by.  Either way, we won't have to listen to your bellyaching anymore.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!!!
(And if you have a problem with that, I don't give a shit!)

Bare Assed

T-Minus 21 And Counting

I worked this morning and as it does on most occasions, my mind wandered away from the monotonous task I was doing, to a subject a little more interesting.

Today is December 1st and if the Mayan calender is correct, we, as a collective, only have 21 days remaining in existence.  Pretty shitty, considering I just celebrated my birthday and Christmas is just around the corner, but the premise got me to thinking.  Not to mention, I have to work until the twenty-first of this month, before the seasonal shutdown at work.  It would definitely blow, if I have to work every day then my first day off marks..., nothing.  OBLIVION!!

IF the world actually does come to an end, how might one want to go out?  When asked, a majority of the consensus tends to lean toward "going out with a bang", and I don't mean a "shoot 'em up" kind of scenario, but more of the intimate variety.  A minority would opt for spending it with family.  I don't really have much for family.  My sister has her husband and kids and I believe that if the world were coming to a violent end, they'd rather spend it with themselves alone, and rightfully so.  

That leaves only one option left for me, and sadly I am without a "beneficial friend".  Although, with time quickly counting down, beggars may not be choosers and mutual copulation may be easier than initially thought...

It was at this point that I had the song "Sex & Candy" pop in my head, by the band Marcy's Playground.  A stupid name for a band, but no worse, I suppose, than Meat Curtains.  One of the lines of the song specifically states, "I smell sex and candy, here."  Disgusting!  Candy would be alright.  Every time I walk into the Pine & Fancy Candy Store at the mall, I'm mentally teleported to a far away fantasy land where everyone is happy and sweet.  As for sex though...  Yech.  Unless there's scented candles or lotions, the smell is anything but wonderful.  Or at the very least, not nearly as enjoyable as the act itself.  All musty and sweaty...  I don't know if I'd want to spend all of eternity with that reminder on my mind.  If the End of Days comes on December 21st of this month, and I do find a partner to spend my last fleeting moments with...  I hope she's wearing a Vanilla-based perfume.  Mmm.  Vanilla.

Frankly, I think it's a load of malarky.  Just like Y2K and those retards last year who thought a flying saucer was coming to pick up the human race.  A bunch of bullshit.  It is my belief, and I've been stating this for years and years, since first learning of the Mayan calendar and prediction of Armageddon.  I think the Mayans simply got to the end of the page or the stone tablet.  Whatever they were counting out the days on and never got a chance to carve out another tablet.

It's written that the Mayans existed between 250 and 900AD.  Nearly two thousand years ago.  Why the hell did they need to carve out a calendar so far into the future?  If they knew the world was going to end on December 21st, 2012, wouldn't it have just been easier to simply carve out a statement?  "Hey future people, as of December 21st of 2012, you guys are all f*cked!!"

It's just a scheme to get people into a panic.  The survivalist stores are all raking in the bundles of cash as scared desperate people spend what little money they have remaining from the recession, on rice, canned beans, gas generators and handguns.  Even I had hatched a scheme to make some cash from all the hype.  I wanted to fashion a 2012 calendar that showcased a different natural disaster in every month, then in December, I was going to number it up until the 21st, then leave the remaining days blank.  F*cking HILARIOUS!!!

How Does Paper Beat Rock?

I have a friend who used to be a professional Rock, Paper, Scissors athlete.  He was ranked in the Top Five Worldwide and better than that in just North America.  He was very successful, making tons of cash with endorsement deals and alike, then all at once, his luck ran out and it all slipped away.  Flushed down the proverbial toilet faster than an unwanted turd.  Public opinion's "rock" trumped his "scissors".

What struck him down in his prime?  Was it the constant rumours of steroid abuse?  He, of course, denied all the accusations and passed every test thrown his way.  No.  It was the booze and the whores.  The wrong kind of women can get a man in trouble, especially a guy riding high on the successful wings of the World Series of Paper, Rock, Scissors.  A man left with no moral support, but for those left way back at home, is apt to do some foolish things.  I've done a great many stupid thing, and I've not had the luck of an athletic career or a huge bank roll to feed my foolishness.  All my stupidity has been done for free.  However, I'm straying from the topic, for which I apologize.

Despite his short-comings, he's learned many, albeit harsh, life-lessons and has grown to be a much better person, both mentally and spiritually, from it.  Today, he can be found coaching young up-and-comers in the strategy game play that is Paper, Rock, Scissors.  It is his vast experience in this sport that I found comfort in exploring one of the greatest mysteries bestowed upon this world:  How the f*ck does paper beat rock?!?

Paper doesn't hurt unless you have an actual newspaper press roll, which I've learned weighs in at about a metric ton.  That roughly translates out to about a small sedan, which I've had the displeasure of rolling over my foot, once upon a time.  Not a pleasant experience, let me tell you.  Then again, I'm reminded of a particular skit from the first Jackass movie, in which many of the guys were volunteering to get paper cuts between their toes, fingers and even a mouth or two.  In my experience as a receiver of products from abroad, some paper can slice you open like a f*cking shiv, and that my friends, hurts even more than a Chevy Cavalier running over my foot.

Paper, however, cannot cut through a frickin' rock.  Not even that shitty paper from India and China that cut me open so often.  So once more, I'm left asking myself: How the f*ck does paper beat rock?

BARNEY

Assault of any kind on a minor is a terrible thing.  In past blogs, you may remember my going off on a tangent, exclaiming my tremendous disgust for crimes against children.  I'm even no stranger to assaults, having been on the receiving end of several beatings as a child.  In fact, today marks the anniversary of getting my nose broken when I was sixteen years old, just three days prior to my seventeenth birthday.  I wouldn't wish that act on anyone.  Pain and discomfort aside, the mental anguish that is closely associated with such an assault, can damage you for years to follow.  That was a different time and different circumstances, and despite some doubts from some family members, I've forgiven my father for that incident.  I recognize that it was the alcohol, NOT him, that escalated the situation from what it could and should have been.

So perhaps this is what fuels my disgust for crimes against children.  I don't know.  I can't really say for sure.  However, that withstanding, I can't help but think that it would've be pretty frickin' funny to witness Barney the Purple Dinosaur losing it and gobbling up the menagerie of children collected at his feet during his daily children's television show.  Dinosaurs ARE carnivores, after all.

I love you. You love me.
You taste good in my purple belly...

President Obama Did Not Kill the Twinkie

It's been stated that if the world experienced total global annihilation, the only things that would remain would be cockroaches and Hostess Twinkies. 

Earlier this week, it was announced that after nearly a century of production, 82 years to be exact, Hostess would be ceasing production of the Twinkie.  It's was joked that just weeks before the Mayan's predicted "End of the World", that the one item that would survive it all, will not exist any longer.

While perusing Facebook earlier, I noticed this picture and included in the comments was some ill-informed idiot who blamed President Barrack Obama for the snack's demise.  How f*cking stupid are people?  Don't answer that, it's rhetorical.

The President of the United States is NOT to blame for the closing production of the Twinkie.  In actuality, it was workers striking for increased pay against an already bankrupt company, for work primarily performed by machines & robots.  What was the reason for the Hostess going broke?  It's only speculation, on my part, but it would be my guess that it's the health craze.

All you health nuts, slurpin' back your bottled water, eatin' your tossed salads and protein bars.  YOU are the culprits behind the death of Hostess and their delicious treats.  Choosing carrot and celery sticks over Twinkies and Ding Dongs, THAT is the true crime.

Of course, Hostess failed to discourage the marketing ploy of Twinkies surviving a nuclear holocaust.  Who wants to stick those kinds of chemicals into their bodies?  I am, by no means, a health freak, but in the interest of avoiding fattening foods, I sometimes take to reading the list of ingredients, most of the time having difficulty pronouncing the words printed on the tiny packages.  It's a good way to make one feel sick to their stomachs and thus avoiding the snack.

Although, I am not a connoisseur of the Twinkie, I do enjoy the odd Ding-Dong, which is called "King Dons" in Canada, here.  But another Hostess item that I've learned may be falling by the wayside, is the infamous WONDER BREAD.  I f*cking love Wonder Bread.  Not only is it a flavourful bread for sandwiches and alike, but I love the feel and sound of the words, "wonder" and "bread" falling off my tongue.

Marijuana was legalized in a few states during this last (American) election.  Too little, too late.  All the pot smoking in the world and subsequent munchies will not save the Twinkie from it's inevitable demise.  However, when one door closes, another one opens.  The closing of the Hostess plants marks opportunity for someone.  Some other company to swoop in and make an iconic snack that take the place of the Twinkie, standing side-by-side with the cockroaches after the world crumbles and falls next month, as per the Mayan prediction.

Creep Creepin' Along

There is one school situated between my workplace and home.  One school zone in which the speed limit is reduced from 50 kilometers per hour, to a snail's pace of just 30 km/h.  Understandable it is, that the speed should be reduced as children are often seen jetting out into the street, in a streak of excitement at another day done and one day closer to the weekend.  There are no children where I work, but come quitting time, there's a mad rush into the parking lot and an even greater mad dash to exit the parking lot.

It was just a few years ago, that on his way to school, some small child cut across the street, in the middle of the block, and found his short life cut even shorter, as he was struck down by a passing automobile.  From that day forward, the speed limit was cut in front of schools.  Whether they be schools still open or not, for that matter.  I once received a speeding ticket while passing a school that had been closed down for some years.  A stupid loop-hole that even the cop admitted was "bullshit", however his hands were tied and I was summoned a pricey ticket.

The speed limit, to me, literally is a snail's pace.  My truck is barely at an idle as I creep down the street.  I still glance to the side, making sure that no children come darting out in front of me.  Kids can be pretty stupid sometimes, just like that little peckerwood all those years ago, who failed to see the cars heading for him.  "Check both ways, stupid!!"  Today, though, I realized that this low speed also seems a little creepy.  Oodles of drivers creeping past schools, looking for delinquent kids?  That sounds (and looks) really offbeat.  Probably the only real saving grace is, most everyone are not driving unmarked panel vans, and I'm pretty god damned sure that no one behind the wheel, is sporting a clown suit.

Secret Ballot

The Saskatoon civic election snuck up on me.  When I first learned of it, I thought I'd have so much time to size up the candidates.  I knew already, from speaking to him on my front stoop, who I was voting in Ward 5, where I currently reside.  I even went so far as to get a sign for my front yard.  His opponent, came to my doorstep, but never rang the door bell.  Obviously discouraged by the sign posted on my lawn, he instead through his literature down on the ground, trapped between my house and the shrubs.  What a prick!  Instead of trying to sway my vote, he'd rather act like a spoiled bitch.

As for mayor, well, I've not been happy with the guy we've had for the last (I don't know how many) years.  He's an arrogant asshole, as far as I'm concerned.  With every good fortune that has come to Saskatoon, he's patting himself on the back for "making it happen", despite all those who (behind the scenes) are the real heroes for making things happen.  For putting Saskatoon back on the map and making it a desirable destination to raise a family.

So I went to the school gymnasium down the street, registered to vote by showing my I.D. and coloured in the little black oval as instructed.  Instead of having cheap little cards that get folded over thrice after placing your X, they're now complicated sheets that get placed through a computer onsite.  The instructions for placing my ballot into the envelope was unclear, and like so many before me, I placed it upside down.  The gentleman at the reception table where the ballots were being entered, explained my mistake to me.  

"You place this in like so," he said, demonstrating that the blank side needs to be face-up, "This way, I can't see who you're voting for."

I chuckled and admitted that by having a sign showing my support for my candidate has revealed my vote to everyone who drove by my house for the past three weeks, so it didn't matter who saw my vote.

Happy Halloween, Kids

Unfortunately, this seems to be the case.  Superheroes and cowboys for the boys and "slutty whatever's" for the girls.

A few years ago, a some work friends and I went for some refreshing beverages after our work day, at a local drinking establishment.  It also happened to be Halloween, and as memory serves, the bar had soon filled with a bevy of women, wearing a menagerie of costumes, most of which were of the "slutty persuasion".  It was wall-to-wall eye candy, and what had initially started as a couple of drinks after work, soon extended itself to many many drinks after work.  There were slutty nurses, slutty vampires, slutty bunnies, and a cornucopia of slutty cats.  It was a very nice night, visually.

However, this slutty costumes, I have found, have been gradually spilling over into children's and teenage costumes.  This past weekend, as I was cycling through my bundles of flyers, I came across one ad for savings on Halloween costumes for kids.  Pictured above the (albeit reasonable) price, was a picture of two teen girls, one dressed as a provocative witch, the other as a provocative cat.  Both I determined was inappropriate for the targeted age.  I'm all for freedom of self-expression.  I, myself, had many a questionable Halloween costume as a teen, that I am not proud of, but none of those were purchased from a store.

It's sad that kids, girls more specifically, are being steered in this direction.  The only true saving grace is the fact that in this vicinity, 99% of the time, there is snow on the ground on October 31st and the temperature is so low, that a parka is mandatory to wear over the Halloween costume in question.

Grave Injustice

Several years ago, I found myself in a doctor's office, the specialist behind their desk explaining to me, in great detail, the results of several tests that had been performed on me.  I had apparently been born with a "syndrome", of which will prevent me from ever fathering a child.  I can be a dad, per se, but only if I adopt.  Not by having a child the "fun" way.

I share this with you all, because I find it appalling that I am faced with a situation where I know I could be a good father to a child, then you get all these other butt-reaming assholes, who have one, two, or more kids, and don't appreciate the incredible gift they have before them.

I see it in the news all too often.  Kids being harmed in all sorts of ways.  I find it painfully difficult to listen to, and even more difficult to accept.  In 2011, it was the case of Zahra Baker, the little girl who had survived a horrendous bout with bone cancer, which resulted in the loss of part of her lower left leg and her hearing.  The one thing she never lost, was her beautiful smile, but a selfish stepmother killed the little girl, the details of which are far too horrific to repeat, stole this little girl's life.  Such a waste of life, sickens me.

What sparks this disdain in me, once again, is the brutal slaying of a six-month old baby girl by her "father".  After a night of partying with his loser friends, a 19-year old Colorado teen, Dylan Kuhn, repeatedly slammed his crying infant daughter into the mattress, in an effort to silence the baby girl.  When it was discovered that she was no longer breathing, the authorities were called.

The story initially given to police was that a couple days before, the baby had gotten twisted up in some blankets and fell off the couch and striking her head.  However, evidence found during the autopsy of baby Sailor, failed to match up with the claims made by this sorry excuse for a human being.  Finally this piece of shit, admitted to authorities of how his infant daughter had actually died.

The story doesn't end there.  After pleading guilty for his crime, the charge was pleaded down from Murder to Manslaughter, and instead of receiving the mandatory sentence carried with this charge, the judge, the "dis"-honourable Douglas Walker, sentenced the youth to a mere 90 days in jail, and four years probation.  Apparently, Dylan is also required to take some Parenting classes, too f*cking late, if you ask me.  As well, this motherf*cker is required to submit evaluations on mental health and substance abuse.  In addition, he's not allowed to be left alone with any children under the age of 10.

Motherf*ckers like this all over the country and the world.  Having kids and not realizing (and appreciating) how miraculous and precious these little lives really are.  Sadly, this won't be the last case like this that I'll see on the news channels.

It's a rare occasion, if any, that I side with that sociopath Nancy Grace on CNN's HLN, but when I heard her wild exclamations and accusations tonight, in regards to Dylan Kuhn getting a slap on the wrist for murdering his baby girl, I was disgusted and appalled as well.

Language Barrier

I should have known that Thursday was going to be a f*cked up day at work, when I jumped up at 5:31am, in a panic, thinking I was late for work.  I'd already gotten one sock on my foot before I realized that I had an entire hour before I had to depart for work.

For the most part, my day was relatively routine.  I got out to my primary work area and was greeted with a horrific mess left by the previous night's crew and the "burn-off" idiot from that morning.

I drive a fork lift for a industrial-type factory here in the city.  At the current time, I am covering for a fella who's off with a nasty back injury that required surgery.  What the job entails is placing steel racks onto carts for the assembly/paint line at the industrial factory in where I am currently employed.  The emptied racks, once depleted of the parts they hold, must go to a fiery furnace to have the paint removed from the racks.  It's an easy process which is complicated in it's explanation.  Suffice it to say, the guy who works the burn off area, is as a fellow worker described as a "dip-shit".  And this dip-shit, causes me grief on an almost daily basis.  However, he is not what made this day stupid.  It was the communication with one or two other people.

The plant in which I work, employs a great deal of people of the Filipino persuasion.  What I find odd about these folks, is the fact that they come from a Sovereign State of South East China, they all have Mexican-type names, but can't speak a lick of Spanish.  It's all that ping-pong wing-wong shit.  That isn't a language!  Those are sounds from a vintage pinball machine.  What's even more f*cked up is, a majority of these folks, can't pronounce the letter 'F'.  The very same sounding consonant that starts the country of their origin.  The afore mentioned dip-shit, can't even pronounce my name.  Always calling me "JEPP".  Who the f*ck is Jepp?

Believe it or not!  I don't have that much of a problem communicating with the Filipino workers.  Granted I don't speak to the masses, but instead a few strategically placed folks.  The people I have a problem speaking to, are the people of the caucasian persuasion.  The older white guys who were born and raised right here in Canada, where English is their primary language, but you'd never know it because the order in which they speak certain words, totally confuses the f*ck out of me.

For example, this grey-haired guy flagged me down yesterday and kindly asked me if I'd pick up a heavy steel instrument from outside and bring it to his stall inside.  I gladly agreed, always eager to help, and asked where he was.  

"I'm right across from where they're building those great big tanks." he said.  I knew exactly the tanks to which he was referring and quickly picked up the tool with my fork lift and traveled down to the stall across from those giant tanks that were being built.  Once there, I asked the grey-haired fellow where he'd like it.  The man just stared at me and told me he didn't know what I was talking about.  

"You just asked me to bring this down to you, like two minutes ago."  As it turned out, it wasn't the same guy.  For some reason, in this general area, there's about three different old f*ckers, all with the same shitty haircut and all with same shitty salt-n-pepper 1970's porn mustaches, thus confusing the hell outta me.  Eventually, I found the guy, who didn't have the stall across from the big tanks being built, but was beside the giant tanks.  I tried to explain his error, "You said across, which would indicate that there was some sort of barrier that divided you from the tanks.  Like a river.  Or shrubbery.  A field or in this case, the roadway..."  My words were futile.  He just stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language.  What a dumb-ass.

Today, the same thing occurred.  There were some carts outside with shiny red painted parts on them.  This guy, who's name I'll change to protect innocent...  Let's call him DICK!  Come's up to me and asks, "When you have a spare moment, can you bring in those painted parts for me?"  I thought it odd, being he is a welder, but what the f*ck?  He apparently knows what he's talking about.  So I bring in the two carts of painted parts and park them in his stall.  About five minutes later, he storms up to me and demands I remove these painted parts.  "You don't put painted parts in a weld stall!" he said forcefully, to which I replied, "You told me..., 'When [I] had a moment, could I bring the painted parts in to you."  

"Well I meant to take them over to R___."  She's located on the far side of the west plant, in which I currently work in.  

"If you'd have said that, I would have, but YOU said 'bring them in to YOU'."  (In my world, when someone requests that something be brought to them, it literally means: Taking that item and bringing it to that person.  It does not mean: Taking [said] item and shuffle it off to whomever.

"Well I meant for you to take them to R___!" he repeated, adding more force to his tone.

"You should've said that then." I answered, unwilling to take any shit.

"You know what I meant."

"I can't read minds.  You should say what you mean." I quickly answered and leaving the matter at that.

My biggest frustration in life, is why it seems those who are to speak English most fluently, seem to f*ck it up the most?  Some days I just want to scream and pull my hair out when dealing with these dumb-ass people...

Perhaps it's my own fault, though.  Over the years, since leaving high school, I've tried to perfect my speech and use of the English language.  I've improved myself so much so, that a few years ago I was tested on my speech, reading comprehension and writing.  The result was scoring in the top twenty-one percentile for my age group.  Which was explained to me as my being "smarter" (that's debatable, I suppose) than 79% of the people in my age group.  I can't help but wonder, where I'd score in comparison to the age group of older grey-haired f*cks with 70's porn-style mustaches...?

Snoozed

Years ago, I used to work the night shift.  It was a laborious job, so naturally I was bushed when I'd arrive at home, and more often than not, I'd pass out on my bed before even changing out of my work clothes.

During my short stint in the East College Park area of this fine city, I blacked out all the windows in the bedroom of my basement suite, to help provide a peaceful and restful slumber without the interruption of light, even though there was a densely leafed tree just outside my room.  Unfortunately, for all the light that it blocked, sound still found a way to filter in.

The sounds of traffic passing by on the semi-busy never affected me much.  Even the thunderous sound of a city transit bus rolling past, never shook me enough to awaken from a deep sleep, but there was one sound that did.  Those screeching f*cking birds.

I've never been a fan of birds, except for that parrot in the Robin Williams movie, "Survivors".  And I suppose you could include the penguins from the Madagascar movies, but all others creep me out.  It's the idea that they don't have hands, that skeeves me out.

So the fact that these menacing creatures decided to have a gab-fest outside my window this particular week, was more unfortunate for them than it was for me.  The first day, I managed to suffer through the distraction, but was terribly tired that night at work.  The next day, the screeching continued, and despite my going outside to tend to the situation, I still failed to get a restful sleep, opting instead to sleep in the chair in my living room.  The third day, I took matters into my own hands.  I never threw a handful of rocks 'n' stones, opting instead to take the high pressure nozzle I'd purchased for washing my car, and pointing it up into the tree in question.

EVICTED!!!  After that, I slept like a kitten.  Problem solved!

If Only Joe P Could Moonwalk

People flew off the handle when O.J. Simpson was not guilty of brutally slaying his ex-wife, Nicole and her friend, Ron Goldman.  Thousands rioted in the streets of Los Angeles for six days, when L.A. cops were acquitted of the beating of Rodney King, despite the video evidence.  Or after being bombarded with an avalanche of circumstantial evidence, Casey Anthony was found not guilty of murdering her daughter Caylee, America went ape-shit.  

These are just three examples of people being presumed guilty after having their fair day in court and society lashing out at the judicial process and how Lady Justice turned a blind eye.  How justice failed the fallen victims of each case.  Yet Michael Jackson, on several occasions, was accused of fondling children, gets overlooked.  He even settled out of court, to avoid further scrutiny, but this apparently isn't a sign of a guilty man, but that of an "innocent man avoiding slander".  I call BULLSHIT!!!

In this society, apparently, if you can put out semi-entertaining music, with a decent beat and some slick dance steps, you can get away with fondling children.  I speculate just how far Michael Jackson could've pushed the envelope to escape persecution from society.

"Hey!  Did you hear Michael Jackson slayed five people and buried them under the monkey cage at Neverland Ranch?"

"Yeah, I did.  But he created the Moonwalk dance, so it's okay!"

Admittedly, there's one or two songs that he put out over his career that are pretty good.  In my opinion, most of his songs are over-rated.  Definitely, not worth looking past his pedophilia for, though.

Last year, Penn State's football coach, Joe Paterno was fired for failing to report the [then] alleged actions of his assistant coach, Jerry Sandusky.  Even though he followed the university's minimum requirement in the handling of the situation, in the end, because he failed to report the incidents to the state police, he was terminated for "covering the situation up".  So this man.  This historical football coach, who lead thousands to college football greatness.  This man who's career accomplishments are second to none, lost his entire legacy due to public opinion.  The record books have been erased and rewritten.  The statue that once graced the hallowed ground in front of Beaver Stadium, was removed in July of 2012.  A truly sad conclusion to a great legacy...  Now..., if Joe Paterno would have been able to Moonwalk out of these allegations and told everyone to "Beat It!", then who knows what might have been.

American Justice is not the one with the blind eye.  It's YOU.  Society.

Water is wet.  The sky is blue.  A tiger can't change it's stripes.  AND, Michael Jackson was a pedophile.

Aardvarks Just Look Stupid

It's no secret that I question the validity and the existence of God.  I tend to live my life based in reality and logic.  That mankind evolved from apes over the course of millions of years.  Frankly, the idea of an invisible man living in the clouds who has full reign over how people should act in this life and the next, simply feels preposterous to me.

I don't fault anyone who needs to lean on "him" or the bible to get through the rough parts of their lives.  When I hurt my leg a few years ago, I too, needed a crutch to get through the tough times. All I request is that you keep your christian ethics and beliefs to yourself.  Other than in this forum, I never push my non-beliefs on people, so why should I listen to their drivel?

The reason for this blog today, though, is spider webs.

"Huh?!?" You seem stumped, but yes! I said spider webs!  There is a song that was released a few years ago by an artist whose name escapes me, but it posed the question, "What if God was one of us?"  For the purpose of this blog, I will suspend my disbelief momentarily.

When I got home from work today, I exited my garage and walked straight into a spider web.  Why the little motherf*cker had to place an intricate web in the doorway, I will never understand.  This, however, is not the first time it's happened.  I was leaving for work a few weeks ago and the same thing happened at my front door, only this time the spider had constructed an elaborate web that spanned from the door to the screen door and back again.  It was quite spectacular, I assume, as I was twisting and spiraling across my front lawn, struggling desperately to remove it from my hair, face and teeth. 

So back to the God stuff...  'What if God were one of us?  Just a stranger on a bus, trying to make his way home.'  I think that's one of the lines in the song.  First of all, if God were among us, why would he be taking a bus?  Have you seen the freaks who ride the bus?  I know that God is "all-loving", but even he has to have his limits.  Sheesh.  Guaranteed, though.  The bugger never went for a walk in the park.  If he had, the first moment he walked through a spider web, he'd have abolished the world of spiders.  This much is for certain.  That's the first thing I'd get rid of if I were King of the World.  Get rid of the bugs and the spiders.  There's no need for them.  Birds can eat something else and aardvarks just look stupid.

This is just one of the reasons why I believe there is no God.  I have lots of reasons, mostly logical ones, but this is just one of the reasons.

Motherfreakin' Cessna

In recent weeks and months, there's been a brash of similar pictures like this one making their way to Facebook.  It almost seems like people are taking any crash photos of cars and tagging them with messages to "Stop Texting" while driving.  It is a valid message, I agree, and the more people recognize the dangers, the more apt they will be to resist the temptations of texting behind the wheel.

With the exception of this photo which promptly displays a sign posted at the site of this catastrophic car wreck, how does one know for a fact that all these accidents are the result of drivers "LOLing" while driving?  I'm sure there's a whole host of different reasons.

Years ago, I almost drove into a parked car because a CD case slid off the seat and I was trying to retrieve it, because: I just had to know the name of that song that was playing.  Nowadays, people have their MP3's and satellite radio, so no need for CDs.

More recently, I did meet with a close call.  I'd just finished re-fueling my truck and got in to begin my way home.  I'd barely left the vicinity of the gas pumps, when I heard a sound reminiscent of a plastic bag rustling in a breeze.  I turned my head to the right, towards the source of the unnerving sound and discovered a dragonfly that had somehow found it's way into the cab of my Honda Ridgeline.  This thing was quite large.  Without exaggeration, I'd estimate it's size was roughly the equivalent of a Cessna airplane.  F*cking huge!! Panicked, I slammed on my brakes.  I came to a screeching halt, the car behind me had to swerve out of the way to avoid rear ending me.  F*cker was following too close anyway, probably.  I leaped out of my seat, leaving the door open behind me, stammering at the prospect of what to do next, when suddenly, as stealthy as it had entered my vehicle, it flew out again.

Luckily, it happened in the secure confines of a parking lot.  If I'd have been on the highway, travelling at speeds of 100 or 110 km (60-70mph) and that f*cker had decided to go ape shit, who knows what might have happened?  Single vehicle rollover, most likely.  Ironically, when the police investigate such accidents, they rarely surmise that an insect may have been involved...

I never had my cell phone handy, so I wasn't able to snap a photo of this life-sized dragon.... fly, but if I had, I likely would have had an accident.

Moral of the story!  Keep your windows closed when refueling your vehicle, as you never know what creatures may be lurking.  And stay in school!  Typing "LOL" just makes you looking f*cking stupid!

The F*cking Idiot Defense

I recall, about a year ago, a visit to Costco.  The parking lot there is made up of one ways.  Traffic travels in one direction to access parking, then travel in the opposite direction the next lane over to do the same.  I happened to be trolling up one of the lanes looking for a vacant spot, when I was greeted halfway down by a car travelling in the opposite direction.  I honked my horn to get the driver's attention, rolling down my window in the process.  

"You're going in the wrong direction!" I called out.  Each lane is clearly marked, so her response to my comment was completely unexpected, and pretty f*cking stupid, might I add.

"I'm from out of town," she said, "So I didn't know."

Stupidity is not a f*cking excuse.  If a person held a loaded gun up to someone and squeezed the trigger, thus shooting that someone in the face, the excuse of "I'm from out of town, so I didn't know the gun would go off..." is not valid.  Although, that being said, I wonder why more people don't try to use the "F*cking Idiot Defense" when on trial.  (*It'd be pretty entertaining to see CNN's Nancy Grace's response to this.)

Fast forward to tonight.  I just happened to catch some of the local news, which reported on the Train vs Vehicle accident that occurred south of the city.  Apparently, a couple of women, also from out of town, were travelling to a horse show in a rural community.  They were heading south when they approached a railroad which dissected the road on which they were travelling.  According to the news report, the driver never noticed the train fast approaching until it blew it's horn.  Instead of slowing to a stop, she instead opted to press down hard on the gas, in a desperate attempt to beat the train.  A stunt which her pick-up truck lost, as the train struck the rear of the box, sending the truck into the air.  As if that weren't bad enough, what I've not yet mentioned is, they had a horse trailer in-tow, which did not fair as well as the truck did.

Two horses were inside the trailer.  One, thankfully, died on impact, while the second, lived for several minutes after the accident, with broken legs and in, no doubt, agonizing pain.  It's one thing to put your own safety at risk for an unbelievably stupid stunt, but when you put others, is just blatantly insane.  The horses, according to the news reporter, were described as "best friends", "pets", and "family members".  The combined value of the two horses approach $100K.

I'm no advocate for horses.  I don't find them to be the beautiful creatures that everyone touts them to be, but at the same time, they are living creatures that deserve to expire in a more gracious and graceful manner.

It was mentioned that "unfamiliarity with the area" may have been a factor in the accident, but before the news report concluded, the camera flashed on the railroad crossing sign, which also sported a stop sign, similar to the one pictured above.  So I question the "unfamiliarity with the area" defense.  No matter where you go in this country, the signs pretty much all look alike.  Even the ones in Quebec, which are obscured with that f*cked up language of french, are the same.  This is why they use different shapes and illustrations on the signs.  I would even dare to go as far as to say, anywhere in the world, the signs are pretty much alike.  So once more, being from out of town isn't a valid excuse, here.  I hope that the RCMP who are investigating the incident, throws every fathomable charge at the driver.  The "F*cking Idiot Defense" should not play a factor in her escaping prosecution.

Gorilla Warfare

I remember as a small child, passing through the living room of my home, while my dad was viewing the news.  World news, to me at the time, never mattered much.  In fact, most of what lied beyond the perimeter of my childhood home, never mattered to me very much.  Life seemed pretty simple. Confined.  Wrapped neatly in a small package.  So when I overheard the newscaster reporting about guerrillas fighting in Central America, I immediately pictured large, hairy primates uprising against their human oppressors.  I was curious as to how these creatures were able to operate firearms, let alone aim and fire accurately.  Although they possessed apposable thumbs, who was brave (or foolish) enough to train them?  I couldn't figure out why the authorities couldn't simply go in, and tranquilize the gorillas and lock them back up into their cages, or send them back to Africa, where they belonged.  What the hell were gorillas doing in Central America, anyway?

For the next few days, I would sit with my dad, watching the news and hoping to catch a glimpse of the clever primates.  They must have been very well-trained, I thought, for I never once saw them on the newscast.  There were always these dirty looking hispanics running through the trees, firing off their guns, aiming into the distance.  "Them monkeys are crafty." I thought.

It wasn't until some years later, when my age entered into the double-digits, that I learned that the freedom fighters in question, were not of the monkey-variety, but of a more humanoid form.  Bandits and criminals hiding in the hills of Central America, fighting for their freedom to grow illegal narcotics, rather than succumb to a more law-abiding way of life, of growing banana's and coffee and whatever the f*ck else they grow in Central America.

I guess, in the end, I was half right.  Though they weren't intelligent apes fighting against their oppressors, they were stupid animals...

The Little Tramp

I had some time to kill before going into my doctors appointment today, so I took the opportunity to continue listening to the Howard Stern program that was repeating on Sirius 100.  Rarely do I tune into any other channel on Sirius, as I really enjoy the Stern programming, but it is a rare occasion that I get to listen to a show in it's entirety, so being allowed a few extra moments today, was a gift, for lack of better terminology.

Howard was, like always, at the top of his game, this time ragging on the Tony Awards, which aired last night on CBS.  Howard praised Neil Patrick Harris, who hosted the event, as being fantastic.  Harris has been on the Stern program in the past and has always proved himself to be a great guest.  However, the rest of the Tony Awards, did not meet up to the notoriety that it's self-boasting tends to celebrate.  Howard proceeded to ridicule just about everything and everyone associated with the program, stating that he greatly disapproved of the pretentious attitudes displayed by the participants.  Even going so far as to poke fun at acting legend Bernadette Peters, who introduced an award using a high society sounding tone of voice and accent that greatly distanced her from where her roots lie.  "She's from f*ckin' Queens!" Howard chuckled.

Disappointed greatly in the awards show, Howard explained that he wanted to got to bed and watch True Blood, before turning in for the evening.  Howard works a very early time for his radio program, so late nights for the King of All Media, are a rarity.  Only he found himself with about twenty minutes to spare, before True Blood was to begin.  He could've continued to watch the Tony's, but he was so turned off by the behavior of "those theater types", that he opted instead to self-pleasure himself.

This is a subject that Howard speaks about quite often on his show.  He's a married man, with a beautiful wife and a healthy relationship, but sometimes a man's gotta do, what a man's gotta do.  Besides, which his lovely wife was out of town.  So to his laptop he went.  

Howard is a huge proponent of the YouPorn website.  It's like YouTube, only with a more "colourful" catalog.  He also tends to lean towards watching "babysitter porn".  I've never seen it, but every time I hear about it, I think of the movie "The World According To Garp", starring Robin Williams.  I'm not sure if it's because he has sex with the babysitter in the movie or that other scene where his wife accidentally bites off the dick of a guy she was giving a hummer to in the driveway of her house.  Either way, the subject doesn't seem very appealing to me.  And it didn't seem to interest Howard either, though I'm sure it was for entirely different reasons.  He claims to have watched the same video over and over several times, so decided to look for a new subject.

The Howard Stern Program has had a lot of adult entertainers come visit the studio over the years and so he drew inspiration from one of his past guests, Little Lupe.  He typed her name into the search engine on the YouPorn site, but found nothing by her.  Some "artists" wish to retain their integrity and resent the free status that is YouPorn, just as some mainstream programs cannot be found on YouTube.   Instead of finding Little Lupe under the YouPorn site, a plethora of other "Little's" came to light, including Little Person porn, which is funny as hell to watch.  Bridget the Midget....  Ha ha....  I tells ya....  But Howard wanted nothing of the sort.  Instead he found something that sparked his attention.  "Little Tramp Has Sex For The First Time".

Howard began explaining the premise to his co-host, Robin Quivers and his audience, but I blocked it all out, laughing hysterically because I thought at first it was old sex footage of Charlie Chaplin, aka "The Little Tramp"...  Ha ha haaa....  Can you imagine?  I certainly did.  I laughed so hard, tears began to form in the corners of my eyes.  I continued to laugh as I crossed the parking lot, heading for my doctor's office and even as I approached the reception desk, I still had a stupid-ass grin on my face.  It was a perfect end to an otherwise troubling day.

Only The Good Die Young

At long last, I sat down tonight and viewed the movie "50/50", which stars Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Seth Rogen.  Levitt portrays a cancer patient who learns that he's got a rare form of cancer that has a survival rate of 50%.  The story shows how he deals with his own mortality, but more importantly, how even though he's able to bravely manage his condition, he is oblivious to how those around him are being affected.  The movie is loosely based on a friend of Seth Rogen's, so the subject matter hit pretty close to home for the Canadian actor.

My own father, passed away a little over thirteen years ago, succumbing to his own cancers (yes, cancers plural).  I can't recall which two types of cancer he had.  I believe one was in his esophagus, which is one that he'd battled (unknowingly) for a number of years.  There was another cancer two, which has spread from the first, but I can't recall what it was.  Needless to say, by the time medical help was sought, it was too late and he died a couple of months later.

That is pretty much my only experience with cancer directly.  Indirectly, I had a friend around the same time that was stricken with testicular cancer.  At the time, in a show of solidarity, a few of us friends all shaved our heads, bald, so he would not be the only one to stand out.  I thought it was a nice gesture, and I think he appreciated it.  I remember the night we all did it, the shaving of our heads, that is.  No one really knew what they were doing, but had some fun with it all the same.  I remember my friend, D_____, the fellow with the cancer, went first, opting for a mohawk, before finally taking it all off.  Next was T_____, his "toxic twin" (drinking pal), who instead, shaved the top of his head, leaving the sides and back, resembling himself as an old man, before finally taking off all his hair.  A couple more did it before it was finally my turn.  As I'd stated, no one really knew what they were doing at first, so there were a lot of nicks and cuts on those first few craniums, before everyone honed their craft.  By the time it was my turn, all hair was removed without incident or injury.

Watching the movie, tonight, though, I came to a conclusion.  A sort of theory, if you will.  Despite my outward appearance, I've always remained fairly healthy.  My family seem to all thing that I am destined for an early grave, but they're full of shit and should really worry about their own affairs and leave my shit alone. However, I truly believe that I can't (and likely won't) ever be stricken with anything major like cancer, and this is the reason why:  I don't have anyone to share it with.

By this I mean, the people that I've experienced cancer and serious shit with, have always had a strong family presence or a loved one like a girlfriend or alike to lean on in times of strife.  I don't have that.  I'm not particularly close (in that way) to my family, nor do I have anyone of significant importance in my life, like a girlfriend or anyone.  No one I would burden with trivial shit like cancer.  I haven't a soul, which I believe will ultimately save my life.  "You can't lose everything, if you don't have anything to lose."  The downside, of course, is the fact that I will probably continue to be lonely and miserable.  So it's not all sunshine and roses.

I do not have cancer, nor do I speculate that I will be stricken with it anytime soon.  I do, however, go into the hospital on June 29th, to be put under anesthesia for some sort of procedure to find out why I continue to choke on food, but I doubt that will be anything too terribly serious, and doubt very much that I would die from such a routine procedure.  I mean, f*ck!  I've had the same routine performed on me a half dozen times, while completely conscious, so the positive is that I'm going to be under some heavy duty narcotics, and drugs are ALWAYS fun.

Rocker Billy Joel has the song "Only The Good Die Young".  There are no worries by this cat, as I'm not as good as people think I am, so I won't be dying anytime soon.  Besides which.., I'm a Juggalo!  And wicked clowns, never NEVER DIE!!!

Fudge Packer

Last week, I was in a particular mood.  For some unknown reason, I had a hankering for some ice cream cake.  In my youth, whenever I would get such a craving, I would answer the urge with a visit to Dairy Queen.  I don't know what the recipe is for their soft-serve ice cream, and frankly I don't care what the process is that goes into it's smooth velvety coolness.  I just know it is a delight when I feel it ooze down my gullet.

Granted, the folks at DQ tend to work a lot with a variety of nuts and alike (and that's just the people who work there - BA DUM BUMP), and the fact that they also make their confections with an abundance of peanuts and other legumes, makes my visits even more sparse.  I have a nut allergy.  Bad enough to put me in the hospital..., or worse.  However, on rare occasions, I throw caution into the wind, cross my fingers and hope for the best.  Hope that no cross-contamination has occurred in the preparation of my forthcoming ice cream treat.

So last week, when I got that rare craving for ice cream cake, I found myself walking into my local Dairy Queen location, with a grin on my face.  In the past, I'd always resorted to getting the "pizza"-style ice cream treat, but all they had this time 'round, was shit with peanuts and pecans and a whole host of other shit that should never find their way into any desert dish, let alone my ice cream bowls.  My eyes, instead moved to the cakes and logs.  

The prices have risen quite substantially since my last purchase, so an actual round "cake-style", was out of the question, as they neared the $30 mark.  I opted instead to go with an ice cream log.  The price was just south of the twenty dollar mark, still a little pricey for this thrifty soul, but the cravings overrode my self-respect and I found myself quickly exiting with a ice cream log in tow.

I'd never had a log that consisted of the ingredients that this treat did.  The bottom layer was soft chocolate ice cream.  The next level was crumbled cookie, then a thick layer of frozen fudge.  After that was Dairy Queen's trademark soft-serve vanilla ice cream, then topped with a subtle layer of whipped cream and dusted with rainbow-coloured sprinkles.  By this description, alone, I shouldn't have to inform you that this was tasty as a motherf*cker!  However, I'm going to tell you anyway.  This was tasty as a motherf*cker!  YUM, with a capital MMMMMM.

The ratios of each participating ingredient was perfect.  The only complaint I would air, and it's not really a complaint, but it would be the fudge.  The fudge is packed into the log, insanely tight.  I don't know the methodology used by Dairy Queen for packing the fudge into an ice cream log, but whomever is saddled with that task, is probably one of the top fudge packers in all of the industry.  If fudge packing were an Olympic event, then Canada would most certainly take the gold medal for fudge packing at this summer's Olympic Games in London, England.

Where does a person learn such a craft as fudge packing, and how many hours per day of fudge packing, did this individual have to endure, to become the champion fudge packer that he (or she) has become.  I feel bad, assuming the mystery fudge packer is a male.  I'm sure that a woman could also pack fudge in such a fashion, as well.  Although, given how tightly the fudge is packed into this log, a lot of upper body strength would be required.  The mystery fudge packer, in question, packed quite a wallop, getting that fudge packed in there so tightly.

I suppose, in a day when nearly everything is mechanized, it'd be easy to speculate that the fudge packer is not human at all.  That it's actually a robotic machine of sorts, that continuously packs fudge everyday.  The machinery alone, though, required to pack fudge into the logs so tightly, would be quite large and complicated.  Likely, it'd take up considerable room, and the Dairy Queen in my neighbourhood, is not that large, nor would their sales of ice cream logs (or any other fudge packed confection) would be high enough to warrant such a pricey contraption.  I prefer to think that Dairy Queen keeps the process close to tradition and uses human fudge packers, rather than mechanized ones.  Plus, a machine would fail to add a touch of love with each packed fudge.

Of course, I'm sure the freezing process probably plays a part in the fudge remaining as tightly packed as it is.  After packing the fudge in there so tightly, you'd want to flash-freeze that log as quick as possible.  No one wants to contend with fudge running out of that orifice after being slammed in there.  Fudge can make quite a hefty mess when allowed to run all over.  That is not a mess I would enjoy cleaning up afterward.  Especially after hammering all that fudge up into that hole.  So a good flash-freezer is a necessity.

Whether they are male or female, I salute and take my hat off to DQ's resident fudge packer.  I would not wish to shake their hand though.  I'm not being prejudicial towards their choosing to be a fudge packer, but given the environment they work in, I can only speculate that they also handle a lot of nuts in their hands.  Rolling them between their digits, their oils brushing off and sticking to their fingers.  It's one thing to be a fudge packer, exclusively, but I draw the line at anyone who handles nuts.  No offense.  To each their own.  However, I don't wish to run the risk of shaking this fudge packer's hand, and having nut juice spread to my hands and making me sick.  Plus, if you take into account, all the fudge packing this individual (or individuals) do on a daily basis, the upper body strength would be enough to rip my arm out of the socket.  And that, my friends, would suck balls!