Tongue Piercing

Actress Drew Barrymore on The Late Show with David Letterman, showing off her tongue piercing.  Ugh!

For as long as people have been practicing this type of body modification in modern times, I've been questioning the motives behind getting the piercing in their tongues, only to repeatedly be met with the response, "Oh.  Yooou knoooow!"  

Well I don't know.  I am going on public record, that I do not know why people continue to do this.  I certainly doubt it's because people wish their speech to sound like they're gargling marbles.  So the reasoning continues to elude me.  I can only assume it's along the same lines as why people stick all that shit on their faces, necks, and nether regions.  Just to be different.  That's ludicrous.

I can only admit to knowing how I've repeatedly had my pierced over the years.  And I've never sought a professional to yank on my tongue, then drive a railroad spike through it.  I've done mine the old fashioned way.  The way my father did it, the way my granddad did his, and his father before him, I'm sure.

Forever and ever, I've been notorious for biting my tongue.  Chewing whatever food I have in my mouth, enjoying the taste then all of a sudden...  YEOOOUCH!!!!  A slice is taken outta my tongue.  Usually it's something mild and it only bleeds for a minute or two.  I am reminded of this because today, at work, while snacking on some animal crackers, I had a similar occurrence.  I'm not sure how I managed to take out a chunk at the corner of my mouth.  Not really a chunk so much as a jab or a stab.  That bled for a few good minutes, marring the gentle sweetness of the Arrowroot snack.

The moment that is most memorable for me, though, would have to be back when I was going to school at SIAST.  There was a pizza night in the cafeteria.  The kitchen had made tons of pizzas of varying flavours.  I recall standing with some friends and taking a bite of pizza, when BOOM!!!  I bit my tongue.  Immediately I felt a rush of salty warmth, and knew immediately that my mouth was filling with blood.  I managed to get the bleed under control, but later upon inspection, realized that I'd not only bit my tongue near the back of my mouth, but had also taken a sizeable chunk out of it in the process.

The spot has since healed and thankfully I have not bitten that spot again.  At the time yes.  Repeatedly, in fact, that I bit the tender area, due to all the swelling in the affected area.  Today, I guess I've moved on to greater things.  Things like choking.  Yay.  I'm so lucky. 

Mystery Meat

After returning home from work last Thursday, the day in which I also made a visit to the hospital to receive the unpleasant gastroscopy procedure to remove the piece of food from my throat, I started the process of tossing out the food responsible for the blockage.

The night before, I was going to prepare a tender pork loin, but decided that was too involved and opted for an easy way out instead, which was to eat hot dogs instead.  Simple in it's preparation, as all you need to do is boil water and toss them in.  Boom!  Supper in under five minutes.  Boom!  Blocked throat passage ten minutes following that.  So whilst I was seated in the examining room at the hospital, I took an assessment of the shit I eat and much of it, really isn't that good for me.  Lots of quick and easy meals, opposed to healthy stuff that would not only improve my health, but would be less likely to be caught in my narrowed throat passage, and ultimately less likely to kill me some time down the road.

The top of that list was the hot dogs.  I really don't like the taste of them that much.  Like I said, it's something quick and easy.  If quick and easy is what I require, then opening a can of ravioli is pretty f*ckin' simple.  I don't even need a can opener for that endeavour.  In the process of gathering up all the hot dogs, my cat, MONKEY (pictured above - isn't he adorable?) came roaming around my feet.  Rubbing up against me all loving and such, I thought I'd see if he'd play with one of the hot dogs that I'd prepared the night before and tossed one to the middle of the kitchen floor.

He ran up to it, took a couple of sniffs, then backed off.  It was as if he'd sensed something evil about the thin frankfurter.  I thought it weird and kicked it toward him and once more, he backed away from it, never turning his back on it.  Thinking it odd, I picked it up and tore the ends off it.  I thought if it were smaller, resembling a mouse a little more, he might play with it or take a nibble, but again, he cowered in fear, ears pinned back and eyes concentrating on the food.  I quickly scooped it up and tossed it in the garbage and he returned to normal.

I thought it curious, the response he'd made towards the beef wiener.  Given all the things that I find him nibbling on around the house.  Paper, cardboard, shoe laces, pieces of the carpet torn from his kitty tower (also pictured above) and numerous miscellaneous pieces of refuse that gets tracked in by shoes from the yard, yet he wouldn't entertain the idea of putting any part of the hot dog in his mouth.  He's a freakin' cat, for crying out loud.  He's an animal who licks his own ass after taking a shit, but he wouldn't taste the hot dog.

Makes you wonder what the f*ck "they" put into those f*cking things.

Pardon My French

Earlier this week, Iranian law enforcement [*there's an oxymoron, if I ever heard it] shut down numerous toy stores guilty of selling Barbie Dolls.  As part of a decade's long crackdown, police have been closing toy shops all over Iran for selling the popular doll, as well as anything that remotely resembles Western culture in the middle-eastern country.

I realize that Iran is a very backward thinking country, but is this necessarily the best use of police resources?  Granted, not much can be expected from a country who's President looks like a psychotic Pee Wee Herman.  But I'm fairly certain police efforts could be used for the protection of it's peoples, from real criminals...  (I laugh to myself, knowing that this is a country that scrutinizes it's people more so than actually protect them.  There's probably more corruption in the "legal" side of Iran, than the criminal element.

To close down "mom & pop" stores for selling f*cking dolls, though.  Honest people trying to make a living in a backwards country by selling toys to children.  Giving them a reason to smile and laugh, before they grow old enough to realize that their lives suck because they live in Iran.  But maybe this is why the police feel it necessary to close down these toy outlets.  Perhaps, by allowing children to use their imaginations, they may invertedly realize a better life for Iranians everywhere and eventually becoming the age of majority, will rise up against those who oppose them, and revolt.  Make a change for the betterment of Iran.  Like those who rose up against the government in Egypt last year.

This has been a decade-long fight, though.  So that can't be it.  Maybe it's the carefree attitude that Barbie represents.  Ideally beautiful and carefree.  Independence is not something that the men of Iran wish upon their women-folk.  Burka's and veils are what their women wear.  It's hard to look sexy and beautiful when you're wearing a f*ckin' bed sheet over your f*ckin' head.  A field of black ghosts, is what they look like.  It's stupid.  Some of those middle eastern women, look quite ravishing.  It's sad that they're forced to comply to a defunct practice that should have perished decades ago.

This stupidity reminds me of a practice a little closer to home, which perhaps is not as detrimental as the laws in Iran, but on the retardation meter, it ranks a close second.  That is the French language in the Canadian province of Quebec.  Businesses there cannot display a sign that reads in English only.  It is mandatory that the signage, as well as the products sold within that establishment, need to display the French language prominently.  This is why many companies seldom venture into Quebec as it costs so much to comply to Quebec's idiotic rules and regulations.

The last I checked, Canada was a part of the British Commonwealth.  Quebec is in Canada, so shove that French language up your asses.  Is French even really a language?  No!  Think about it.  When you're around a baby, people feel compelled to make weird and odd sounds to the baby.  "A zsa zsa boo boo pee pee poo poo."  THAT, to me, sounds like French.  Words of jibberish that are nonsensical and mean nothing.  Therefore, it is logical to surmise that French, also, is a nonsensical language and means nothing.  For the most part, Quebecois' are assholes, which is likely the motive behind the push to mandate the French "language" as the primary speech.

Quebec!  Get your heads outta your asses and get with the program.  Iran!  Get your heads outta your asses and realize that the Western civilization is where it is.  The sooner you get on the band wagon and comply, the sooner you can move forward into the future, as a viable culture.  You need to realize that we, the West, put the "civil" in civilization and civility.  Treat your people with dignity, then maybe you won't find yourselves ousted one day.  Or worse....

The Death Of Me

We are less than three weeks into the new year, and I can already predict that if I'm going to die, it will likely be this year.  A morbid thought, to be sure, but given the turmoil I've experienced over the preceding few weeks, I can only guess that as time passes me by, this year, things can either get better.  Or something will happen and I'll simply cease to exist anymore.  I'm not a religious man by any means, but I pray that the latter won't happen.

From the moment I slipped on the ice on Boxing Day, smashing my elbow on the hard frozen ground in the process, I've been met with shit storm after shit storm.  

"But Jeff," you say, "Boxing Day was in 2011.  How can this attribute to your bad luck in oh-twelve?"  Let me tell you friends.

The stitches that were placed in my elbow to repair the split, had pierced one of my veins, unbeknownst to me, and my doctor when she removed my stitches earlier THIS year.  This resulted in a sudden evacuation of blood from my arm.  And not just a drop or two, but a light drizzle, which resulted in the small examining room resembling something like a scene from CSI.

That eventually healed, roughly a week or so after the fact, but anytime I bump my elbow, the pain I experience is unbelievable.  I have a fairly high tolerance for pain.  I experience much discomfort most of the time, but choose not to elaborate on it, as there are always those worse off.  I learned this valuable lesson from a dear friend who unfortunately passed back in 2006.  The pain when I bump my arm, though, is quite substantial.  I never realized how clumsy I am, as I have in the past few weeks.

There's been a few setbacks at work.  Some by customers.  Some by employers.  All complete bullshit.  Customers being unrealistic, in some cases, and taking out their frustrations on us.  Like it's our fault (me and my co-worker - there's only two of us in the entire shop), that they're idiots.  My boss, not the dude from the Winnipeg location who clearly hates me, but MY boss, has been calling and talking to my co-worker, questioning him about me and implying that I'm not pulling my weight.  I've got some concerns about his inquiries.  They're completely unsubstantiated and misguided, but he's not known for being real "logical", so I have to question whether my future with the company is in jeopardy.  Someone (from the Toronto office) once told me that "You have to REALLY screw up to get fired from this company.  As long as you don't steal or snort coke off your desk, you should be fine."  At the time, I thought this was a no-brainer.  The company has nothing I'd ever want to steal, if I were a steal-er, and there was absolutely no chance of ever snorting coke off my desk.  For one, it's a waste of money.  And (B), the bubbles would tickle my nose.  I don't even like laughing and having it drip out of my nasal cavity.

My bosses theories are bullshit.  Personally, I think it's a personal vendetta created by a deep-seated jealousy.  I think he's jealous because I have really cool hair.  Not to mention that I have a LOT more of it, too, than he does.  I could be mistaken, of course, but probably not.  It's happened before.  It's simply one of the unfortunate curses of being such a sexy bitch.  

I've also been plagued with nose bleeds the last couple of weeks, the fluidity of them (pardon the pun), increasing this week.  I had one Wednesday afternoon, while speaking on the phone with a customer.  I found it difficult to juggle the phone, write down her information and hold a tissue up to my nose, while my cohort spoke candidly on the phone about the freezing cold weather we'd been experiencing this week.

I choked on some food Wednesday night.  Something that occurs far too frequently for me.  In the past ten years I've probably had it happen more times than I can count, but have sought medical assistance in their removal about ten times now, the last four experiences being in the last couple of years.  The only method that has proven itself successful, is by having a gastroscopy.  This is a VERY unpleasant procedure which involves getting your throat frozen then a camera, roughly the diameter of a #2 pencil pushed down your throat.  Only as it's going down your throat, it feels more like the size of a Buick Roadmaster.  It's very unpleasant and no amount of freezing can mask that feeling.

I experienced two more nose bleeds.  The first as I was hunched over my toilet Wednesday night, trying desperately to dislodge the culprit on my own.  The water in the toilet quickly turning from crystal clear to a scene from Jaws.  The second as I sat in the examining room at the hospital, before going in for my gastroscopy procedure.

The silver lining this week was, getting my truck back from the body shop.  Unfortunately, I've had a couple of issues in the days since.  One was a missing piece of trim, but that was remedied quickly, but there are a couple other aesthetics that have been bothering me, though, that I'm going to have to address next week.  Grrr, but I really DO love my truck.  Love love LOVE it!

Icing on the cake, was tonight.  Although minor, it's just one more aspect contributing to a compilation of shit.  I finally cleaned a spot in my basement for a shelving unit my mother had purchased for me for my birthday back in November.  I realize that we are now nearly at the "two months later" point, but I'm nothing if not a procrastinator.  The assembly was rather elementary.  Open the package.  Put on feet.  Attach poles then a shelf.  Repeat.  Done!  I fought with the last shelf a little, but finally got it together.  I had one before, and regaled in the simplicity of it's assembly, but this one was, inexplicably, a little more tough, and the end result makes it about two inches taller than the other "exact same one".  I looked down and saw droplets of blood.  I immediately reached for my nose, expecting another nose bleed, but quickly noticed the blood was dripping from my hand.  "How the f*ck did I do that?"

Wednesday night, while struggling to dislodge the morsel of food from my throat, fighting off a violent nose bleed.  The handle on my toilet broke into two pieces.  I own a beautiful home, but I'm not all that handy around the house.  I changed the float a few weeks back and f*cked that up.  The handle looks like an easy fix, but so did the float, so I shudder to see what happens tomorrow when I attempt that job.  F*ckin' house'll probably burn down, given my luck this year.

What does the future hold?  Like I said, I'm not a religious person, but I pray I don't die.  If I win the lottery like I've been hoping...?  Then I'm most likely doomed.  

Happy New Year!

The Other F-Word

When I come across something that is obviously retarded, I feel compelled to add my two cents in, regardless of whether or not people want to know my opinion or not.  Just a few moments ago, I read some entertainment news announcing that the American Broadcasting Company (ABC) has been asked to not air an upcoming episode of the popular series Modern Family, in which a toddler appears to utter the word "f*ck".  According to ABC officials, what the infant says in reality, is the word "fudge".  My question is: When did the tasty treat, become an offensive curse word?

Granted, people have been substituting "fudge" for "f*ck" for many years.  It is one of my favourite lines from the classic Bob Clark film, "A Christmas Story", in which little Ralphy, in an attempt to assist his father in the changing of a flat tire, accidently dumps the hubcap filled with the lug nuts, into the snow.  Ralphy, follows the incident with "Ooooh fuuuudge!"  The narrator quickly caps the statement with "Only I didn't say 'fudge'."  Classic line.  However, the word still means a chocolaty treat, not the act of fornication.  I don't ever recall hearing any self respecting male, talk dirty to his girl by whispering intently in her ear, "Get ready, baby, cuz I'm gonna fudge the shit outta you."  It's just not sexy-talk.  Not that "f*cking the shit outta someone" is such a turn on either....

It's an innocent form of terminology.  A simple split-second comment that will spark a moment or two of laughter, before moving on to, what will likely be a life lesson.  People just have to f*cking relax.  If someone's child is going to be scarred so terribly by a child whispering "fudge", then people, you're kid is already in a heap of trouble.  Furthermore, chances are, if kids are watching this program, they're not going to understand a lot of the jokes anyway.  I used to watch the program, but never found the show that funny anyway.  I only watched it because I thought Julie Bowen was hot.  Sofia Vergara, was okay, but that accent drives me nuts.

Just relax, folks.  If you protest the airing of the episode, guess what?  There's two hundred other channels you can flick over to.  I'm sure there's a Hannah Montana airing somewhere.  There always is.  You have a choice, is what I'm suggesting.  It's not like when I was a kid, growing up on the farm with only three channels to choose from, and one of those being french.  Who the f*ck speaks french?  Is that even a language anymore?

The use of the F-word, reminds me of a conversation I had with my friend once.  I asked him, what if A___ (his son) said the F-word.  What would he (my friend) do?  He told me, that he'd sit down with his boy and explain to him that certain words aren't meant to be used by little boys.  I followed up with my question with another, "What if he used the F-word in the proper context?"  My friend paused for a moment, then gave me the same answer as before.

Agreed.  Kids shouldn't be using the F-word.  I use it all the time.  Perhaps more than most, but it's such a useful word, with so many uses.  Joy, anger, protest..., you name it.  It illustrates pretty much every mood a human being can experience.  Although I wouldn't want to hear my little nephew look up at me with those innocent eyes and say, "Get the f*ck downstairs and play cars with me, Uncle!"  Although I'd have to commend him (in secret) for using the word in proper context.

A Craptacular Day

I think it ironic that so many thought Friday the 13th to be unlucky last week.  Especially when you consider how f*cked up today has been.  For yours truly, anyway.

Nothing too out of the ordinary in the beginning.  Saskatoon is finally experiencing the deep frrrreeezing c-cold that we usually get this time of year.  A far cry from the unseasonable temperatures last week and the weeks preceding it.  I can't recall the exact number, but the temperature this morning, when I got up was around -35 degrees Celsius, which is roughly -31F, but really when you get down that low, whether you understand metric or standard temperatures, what it boils down to is, it's really f*cking cold.  That was the temperature before the wind chill, which according to the radio was about -49C.

I've experienced worse, so I'm not one to complain too much about the weather.  Especially hailing from Saskatchewan where the temperature guage can fluctuate like a motherf*cker!  I remember one New Years Day, when the mid-day temperature reached a balmy plus two degrees Celsius (35F) and by 5pm that same day the mercury dipped to -35C.  Brrr.

I awoke at the usual time, this morning.  Too late to have breakfast or anything, but early enough to make it in to work in the nick of time.  I sat up in bed, rubbed the sleep from my eyes and fantasized about phoning in sick.  That would be a douche bag move and wouldn't be fair to the other half of the employee at work.  (There's only two of us.)

Everything at work was just fine.  Another run-of-the-mill days.  The usual ups and downs.  Phone calls from customers demanding this and that, and one particular animated manager from our Winnipeg office, which my co-worker nipped in the bud quickly.  I tackled some of the assemblies I've been addressing the past couple of days and continued to do so until lunch time.  That's when the fit hit the shan.

We got in a shipment from South Carolina, which was damaged.  The box had a hole in it and instead of the five items we were supposed to get, one was lost through the gaping hole in the box.  A $300-plus piece of merchandise lost, somewhere between Easley, SC and Saskatoon, SK.  F*ck!

So I got the privilege of getting on the phone with the "customer service" of the courier company, (who shall remain nameless, but rest assured, it's the one that gives it to ya in the brown, if you know what I mean - double entendre intended).  The U.S. branch was f*cking useless, so I turned to the Canadian side, which was much more hospitable, but the situation wasn't improved upon by very much.  F*ck f*ck!

So while waiting for a call back from those "kind" folks, I fielded another call while my co-worker was busy getting his ass chewed out by some douche-bag-asshole from one of the companies that we unfortunately have to service.  While doing so, I felt a drip from my nose.  I thought, for a brief second, "Shit.  My nose is running."  I soon discovered that it was not mucus running from my nose.  I now had a nose bleed, while speaking on the phone with my customer.  I tried to get the co-workers attention, but he was staring into space, still getting yelled at about some situation that was out of our control anyway.  (Sometimes I think assholes just like to yell to make themselves feel better about being inadequate.)

So now here I am.  Phone in one hand, tissue in the other, and struggling to find a way to use my pen to take notes.  Thankfully, there was a lull in the conversation long enough for me to twist up the bloodied tissue and anchor it into my right nostril.  I now had a freed up hand to take notes, although I looked like Ricky in the episode of Trailer Park Boys when he had the model truck glued to one hand and a rag glued to his nose.  (F*ck me, that was a funny episode.)

Eventually the day calmed down.  The dozen or so fires put out.  My co-worker left work to get ready for church tonight.  His Ukrainian heritage seems to celebrate a f*ck-of-a-lot of Christmas'.  This is the third one, by my count.  I thought it was a made up holiday, but when I pressed him to admit that it was made up, he got huffy and ignored me.  Three Christmas'....  

Soon after he left, I received another phone call.  This time it was from the body shop where my truck's been since last Friday.  I was informed that my truck was done and I could pick it up.  I was so happy.  The Honda Civic that I had was nice, but I love love LOVE my truck and I couldn't get to the body shop quick enough.  I got my baby back.  The silver-lining to an otherwise craptacular day.

I came home.  I played with my cat for a little bit.  Watched the Chelsea Lately that I'd taped the night before. (Yes.  I still tape shit on a VCR.  I get teased about that shit all the time, but so f*cking what.)  Then when it came time to make supper, I flaked out and decided to have hot dogs and onion rings, instead of the tasty pork loin I'd originally planned on having...  I should've stuck with my original plan.

Throughout much of my adult life, I've had troubles with my throat.  It seems narrow in comparison to other people's.  My neck doesn't appear any smaller than normal.  In fact, I would venture to say that it's quite a thick neck.  Wearing collared shirts, for me, is tough as I am unable to find a lot of shirts that will button up at the top, because of how thick my neck is.  The inner workings, however are another story.  While normal people might have a "wide mouth mason" of a throat, mine could be compared more like a "bottle neck".  Wide, wide, wide, then collapses into a narrow channel.  While it is advised that people should chew their food at least 30x before swallowing, I have to chew my food far far more.  Sometimes, however, things still get lodged in my throat.  This has happened, like I said, a number of times.  Usually so bad that I need to visit a hospital to have it dislodged.  This is never a fun ordeal, as you can imagine.

Once it occurred in a restaurant with my friend Dan, who had to follow me into the men's room when I fled the table in a panic.  He gave me the Heimlich Maneuver, which was a little funny as, if someone had walked into the washroom at that particular time, it might have appeared that he was raping me in the ass.  Another similar event occurred at a friends house, when I got a piece of (albeit tasty) pork lodged in my throat.  My friend was letting his car warm up (in the cool winter night), but in the meantime I was leaning over the trunk of his car, continuing to attempt to remove the rogue object on my own.  Garry, attempting to help, began slapping me on the back.  I never saw the technique he was using, but according to his wife, he was getting some hip action in there and once more, it appeared that I was getting "it" in the dumper.

To dislodge the morsels, doctors have taken to using a scope of some sort.  The device is long and thin, with a camera on the end.  In reality, it is only about a 1/4" thick, but when they're ramming that f*cker down your throat, it feels more like a garden hose.  I cannot stand anything going down my throat in such a violent nature.  Despite there being freezing used, it hurts like a motherf*cker!!!  Like someone shoving a splintery wooden handle from a pitch fork, down your throat.  I've gained a lot of respect for women, because of this terrible experience.  This terrible experience also solidifies the fact that I could never be gay.  That and my allergy to nuts.

Long story short.., too late!  I chose the hot dogs and onion rings over the pork loin, which was a stupid stupid mistake.  I managed to eat a couple of hot dogs and about a half dozen onion rings before I felt that ever familiar feeling.  The inability to swallow.  Like a "literal" frog in my throat, I now go into survivor mode, escaping once more to the bathroom, in an attempt to dislodge the culprit.  The natural tendency is to continue to swallow, hoping that it'll pass through.  This works for most people, but I'm not most people.  I have to be f*cking unique, and when I continue to swallow, this just lodges it in tighter and tighter.  Then to add insult to injury, as I'm leaning over the toilet, I see droplets of blood dripping into the bowl.  Soon my nose is covered in crimson and it's draining into the jaded pool.  "Can this day get any f*cking worse?"  Seconds later, the toilet's flush handle breaks into two pieces...  The handle in my hand, the other half inside the bowl.  I hear a light 'tink' as it sinks to the bottom.   F*ck f*ck f*ckity f*ck!!

It's been a couple of hours since the small piece of hot dog got lodged in my throat.  I've tried every trick I know to try and bring it up, but to no avail.  If it doesn't come loose soon, I may have to make a trip to the hospital.  Although I don't know what they can do for me there, this late in the evening.  I may have to tough it out until morning, which then f*cks the whole day away, leaving my co-worker overworked and over-stressed.  If I could just get a good burp, I know I could dislodge this f*cker.  Unfortunately, when this occurs, I'm unable to swallow anything.  Including my own saliva, which seems to accumulate faster and more abundantly when I'm choking.  What a shitty f*cked up life I lead.  Everything looks rosy on the outside, but inside...  Things are uber-f*cked!

A friend from years past celebrated his birthday today.  I don't know how old he is, nor do I care.  But I sure hope his day was a lot more enjoyable than mine was.  I just want to go to bed, but unfortunately, if I lay my head back, there's a good chance I could die, like John Merrick.  Except I'd leave a much handsomer corpse, cuz I am a sexy bitch!!!

Safety First

It's kind of funny.  In the age of "political correctness" and "safety consciousness" how lackadaisical life once was.  I have old television series on DVD and watched an episode in which parents had their small child laying free in the backseat of the car.  No child seat, no anything.  Not even a loose-fitting seat belt strung loosely around the toddlers waist.  In the event of a head-on collision, this kid was a potential missile.  I even recall as a small child, being allowed to lay across the back window of my parents old Chevy coupe.  Given the wrong incident, I probably could've taken a head off.  Or broken a neck at the very least.

Then people became aware.  Aware of potential dangers.  Even over compensating in some instances.  Even recently, it's been mandated that children who'd graduated from the child seat in mommy and daddy's car, now must return.  The safety harness that was fit for them to use yesterday, doesn't work as well today.  Those poor little bastards.  I'm glad I survived the treacherous terrain that was my childhood, so I never had to endure that torture and deprecation.  Seat belts work.  Maybe not for everyone, but that's just life's way of "thinning out the herd".  I, myself, am unable to drive if I can't wear a seat belt.  I recall using my moms car in high school and the seat belt was f*cked.  You had to either sit on the latch, to make it appear to onlookers that you were wearing a belt, and therefore avoid getting an unwanted seat belt ticket from police; or you had to extend it further and click it into the elusive and hard to reach, middle seat belt buckle.

It's funny watching American TV, though, in regards to seat belt use.  Generally, no one wears it until they about to either, collide with an object or another racing vehicle OR about to plummet over a cliff.  Like the seat belt is going to help in defying gravity long enough to escape danger and injury.

Getting back to the lackadaisical attitude.  What sparked my thoughts on this subject was something so innocent as picking my dad up from work.  

My dad had many a job as I grew up.  He was a handy fellow to have around, but before winding up as a heavy duty mechanic at one of the illustrious potash mines in our province, as a young man he held many positions.  One that reminded me tonight was at a local machining company.  I don't know what they do now, but the company today is far far larger than the small shop where my dad once was employed.  As I said, I can't recall what he did there, but because he was a mechanic for most of his life, I'd imagine he was some sort of mechanical wizard there too.  

At the time we were a one car family.  My mom stayed home with the kids, while my dad worked the day away in the city.  Come the end of his shift, my mom would get us in the car and we'd go to pick my dad up from work.  Upon our arrival, I would go into the establishment.  Now remember, I was a small child then.  I don't think I was even in school yet, so I was quite young.  But I would go into the shop, people there knew me, even though I couldn't remember them.  But that didn't matter.  I wanted to see my dad, and often times I'd find him.  Somewhere in the shop, covered in grease from head-to-toe, and I'd stand nearby and watch him work until the quitting time whistle sang it's song. 

That shit would never fly, these days.  A small child, allowed to roam through a busy machine shop, complete with whirring and grinding machines.  Large quantities of loose steel and grease and other chemicals wafting through the air.  Fork lifts and hand carts and cranes all moving throughout.  A thousand and one potential life-ending scenarios for anyone, nevertheless a four year old boy.  That shit would never fly today.

A few years ago, I worked for a farm/industrial retail company, and if you forgot to wear your steel toed boots to work, they'd send your ass home to get them.  There was NO EXCEPTIONS to that rule, and rightfully so.  I remember one night dropping a heavy electric motor on my foot, and it bent the toe cap enough to cut into a couple of my toes.  I never needed medical attention, but I might have sharted a little.  That was a scary moment.  After that, I managed to drop a number of shit on my toes, even managing to break a toe once or twice in the process.  Today, though, in the job I have now.  Safety isn't so much of a concern.

I shouldn't say it's NOT a concern, but the rules are a f*ck of a lot more relaxed.  My old job at the retail place, you couldn't use the fork lift until a thorough inspection was done on it.  Where I am now, the seat belt doesn't work.  The horn doesn't work and there's no back up beacon.  But so f*cking what.  There's only two of us working in the whole building.  Ninety-nine percent of the time, if I'm in the warehouse, my co-worker is in the front office, and that's the way I like it.  (I like to sing really really loud and if it doesn't annoy me, it WOULD annoy him.)

I don't even have to wear steel toed boots, either.  Thank Christ for that.  I f*cking hate steel toed boots, and given the fact that the composite materials have vacated the heavy weight of the former boots, I still hate wearing them.  My middle name is "Danger", and that's how I likes to live my life.  Always running the risk of dropping some kind of shit on my foot.

Besides.  Chicks dig scars.  Maybe not on one's feet, but chicks dig scars!

Let It Snow, Let It Snow

Finally, it is NOW beginning to look a lot like Christmas, here in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada.  Unfortunately, it already being the New Year, 2012, Christmas isn't for another twelve months.

In normal years, the first snowfall comes around Halloween or soon thereafter, but this year the weather has been freakishly warm.  A number of record-breaking warm days have come and gone, and now it's snowy.  Finally.  As much as I enjoyed the unseasonable warmth, I missed the snow.  Everything appears to be so clean and virginal during that first snowfall.  It's definitely a winter wonderland.

On the other hand, given the amount of snow that has fallen, comes the responsibility of shoveling all that white powder off of my driveway.  I f*cking hate it.  Last year I purchased an electric shovel, which loosely translated is a shitty undersized electric snowthrower.  A perfect machine for someone with very little real estate to clear, but not very effective for someone with an expansive driveway like I have.

Now I have the misfortune of going out this afternoon/evening and clear away my driveway.  So in a couple of hours, when you're reading this note, you can sit back in the warmth of your home, and bask in the glory, knowing that I'll be outside fighting off a coronary attack.  I frickin' hate shoveling snow.

I do like the first snowfall though.  Watching the flakes float down out of the sky.  It was especially nice last year when I came home from work to find my cat, Monkey, in a panic.  It was his first winter and he had a look of panic on his little face.  I swear it was the look of fear, believing the world was coming to an end.  Armageddon...

Misunderstood

Most people associate Friday the 13th with either bad luck or Jason Voorhees.  Jason Voorhees, of course, being the vicious mass murderer of fornicating teens for decades.  He even went so far as to venture into outer space to kill again, after awakening from a frozen state in the 25th century.  Old habits die hard, I guess.

As for the lore of bad luck, I don't know what to say about that.  Mostly, I think it's just a figment of one's imagination.  For years and years, I've had nothing but bad luck.  Could it be blamed on the 13th day of  the month which just so happens to fall on a Friday?  No.  My luck sucks pretty much all the time.  Some view such luck as "Murphy's Law".  "I don't know who Murphy is and where he gets off making up stupid laws..." is what my co-worker from the Toronto office wrote in an email to me today.  I don't know if it is so much a law as it is a constant occurrence.., like the "law" of gravity.  Not really an enforceable guideline, but something that just is.  I replied to her note, telling her to thank her lucky stars, as I have my own "law", which simply states: No matter how improbable or unlikely something is to happen, it will!

Much like Jason Voorhees of the Crystal Lake Voorhees', I think Friday the 13th has a bad rap.  They're both misunderstood entities.  Jason's case is a simple one, which I will address in a short while.  First, however, I want to address the date itself.  Shed some light on the day that so many are fearful of, even though, much like the Wall Street Protest which began back in September, most of those participating, aren't really sure of why they're participating.  Further proving my point that fearing Friday the 13th is just plain silly.

There is an actual "phobia" of Friday the 13th.  It is called "friggatriskaidekaphobia".  I've tried to sound the word out like the kids to on Sesame Street, but in all honesty, I can't frigga-say it.  Rest assured, it's frigga-stupid.  Just attempting to say the word makes me sound like a big retard or Middle Eastern.  But as foolish as that is, the theories behind the fear are even dumber.

NUMEROLOGY:  Is a major culprit.  Anyone who follows this shit is a crackpot to begin with.  Like numbers frickin' mean anything.  I've never put much stock in numbers, unless it's in my bank account or numbers on a wall.  If it isn't the amount of money in my wallet or an address on the wall, I don't need to worry about it.  As for these nut-jobs, they base everything on the number twelve.  Twelve months in a year.  Twelve hours on a clock.  Which is stupid, as there's 24-hours in a day.  They also say that Jesus had 12 apostles.  Numerologists also believe that 13 is an odd number -- DUH!  And those most superstitious believe that because there were 13 people at the Last Supper, that anytime there's 13 diners, one of those thirteen will die soon after.  That's friggin' stupid.  I'm sure Jesus broke bread with these dudes a number of times before that fateful day.  I wouldn't necessarily say it was because Jesus had his twelve apostles with him at supper that led to his demise.  He was too forgiving of a man, which would make him naive and having  poor choice in friends.   I've been f*cked over before.  Lots of times, of course it never lead to my being nailed to a f*cking cross, but I'm still young.

All stupid superstitions.  They should all be overlooked.  There's nothing unlucky about Friday.  Friday is an awesome day.  For those of us lucky to have jobs that don't require weekend work, Friday is the end of an otherwise shitty week.  Because, lets face it.  Unless you work for yourself or have a career you absolutely love, you're just a mindless drone punching a time clock.  A common question posed in my office is "Is it Friday yet?"  And it is usually asked first at about 8:10am Monday morning.

Although, history has proved Friday to be pretty f*cked for some, but I think it was all coincidental.  Like the Templar Grand Master and several of his Templar knights were arrested on Friday the 13th in the year 1307, by King Phillip of France.  Most were tortured and killed.., so yeah, that could be construed as bad, I suppose.  Friday the 13th, 2004 saw Hurricane Charley, a Category 4 hurricane, slam into southeastern Florida.  Charley was the strongest hurricane to that date since Hurricane Andrew twelve years before.  Hmm...., twelve...  I guess twelve wasn't so lucky for Floridians on that day.

Renowned rapper, Tupac Shakur, was pronounced dead on Friday the 13th, which sucks for him.  In my opinion, though, I doubt that motherf*cker isn't dead.  Because aside from Elvis, how can one dead dude keep puttin' out CD's for so many years after his so-called "death".  Again.  A blog subject for another day, though.

Jesus Christ.  The man.  The myth.  The legend, was crucified on a Friday.  It's not known if it was the thirteenth day of the month, but it is a shitty way to start the weekend.  I don't recommend it.

Friday the 13th is fine.  I've always had pretty good luck on Friday the 13th.  It's not a day I'd choose to go camping.  Especially with a bunch of sexy scantily-clad college girls with nothing more than getting drunk, high and sexed up on their minds.  Saturday the 14th, I'm there, but Friday I think I'd stay home.  Just to be on the safe side.  Not that Jason Voorhees is one to be feared.  Well he is, but I understand the man.  I know what ails him.  We're a lot alike, except for the fact that he kills a lot of people with a machete and me, I'm just so sexy it hurts.

Jason Voorhees was a kid that got bullied and picked on.  That sounds familiar.  The only difference is I managed to survive the constant picking and teasing, whereas Jason was drowned in the dark waters of Crystal Lake.  Another trait that we both do share, is migraine headaches.  I get them bad some days.  Sometimes my head hurts so much, the slightest of sounds triggers an unbelievable surge through my head that makes me want to cry.  Jason...  He gets chronic migraines and as a result, he tries to remain in the forest where there is very little noise.  Just leaves rustling in the breeze and the odd chirp of a chickadee.  Now imagine, if you will, your head hurts, the pulse booms in your inner ear, like a kid on a drum.  It's all you can do to relax, then you hear the laughter of college coeds in the near distance.  "Oh f*ck!" you think to yourself, which hurts even though your thoughts are silent.  "Somebody's going to have to pay!"

I enjoy the naked female body as much as the next guy, but when a serious migraine has set on, where even the sound of your own breath hurts your head, the thought of nookie and nudity goes out the window.  I'm sure in those moments of clarity in the aftermath, when Jason is down by the lake cleaning his killing utensils, he may feel a little remorse.  "Hmm.  That hot blonde with the big tits was cute.  Sure too bad I had to hack her up into thirteen pieces, but she just wouldn't shut up."

A good guideline in life is: It's better to be safe, than sorry.  It's better to wear a life jacket in a boat, just in case you sink.  It's better to wear your seat belt, because f*ckers be drivin' crazy out there.  And if camping day falls on a Friday the 13th, maybe just stay home with the doors all locked and hiding under the covers... You know...  Just in case!

Inspector Number 69

From this day forth, pornography will be changed.  Made safer for it's participants, with hopes of reducing disease and unwanted pregnancies.  It was while I was listening to the news on Howard Stern 100 on Sirius radio today, that I learned of the bi-law passed in Los Angeles, California, where it is now mandatory for porn's male participants to wear prophylactics on their...  You know...  Wieners.

Advocates for both the positives and negatives of this practice.  Some argue that it's should be the choice of the actors, not a mandatory state law, forcing them to wear them.  I don't know why it's such a big deal.  I doubt that wearing a rubber affects their acting performance.  There's very little acting involved in that medium anyway.  Terrible acting.  Terrible.  It's like watching Canadian TV, it's so f*cking bad!  Besides, the only acting taking place is by the female performers, anyway.  I doubt that every performance they do in every scene, is really all that genuine.  For the most part, I think the male "actors", are just plain f*cking pigs.

I'm no angel.  I admit that I've seen a pornographic film or two... dozen... ish...  I prefer the films with a story, because (bless their hearts) they're trying.  Nonetheless, nearly all the men in these movies act like f*ckin' scumbags.  Some, associated with bigger studios do wear protection, but there is a lot, A LOT, who choose not to wear condoms, which personally makes me cringe.  Thinking all through the deed, about that poor girl and what may result after the fact.  Disease, infection and pregnancy..., life altering changes are always a possibility.  I view them as being victimized, I do.  Believe it or not, I do breathe a little easier, when a condoms are worn.  It protects the girls from detriment and a way for the viewer to avoid making seeing the disgusting one-eyed wonder weasel.

A man's dick is an ugly thing.  All tubular, veiny and gross.  Yech!!  Frankly, I don't know how homosexuals can to that shit.  To further stress the point, I don't know why there aren't more lesbian in the world because of how gross the male appendage is.  Procreation, I suppose...  I think the addition of the mandatory condom, is a plus.  It should make viewing the product much more enjoyable...

However, I question how the Los Angeles authorities are going to enforce this new law.  In a city with such a high crime rate already, are L.A. citizens going to breathe a little easier knowing the police are cracking down on porn sets, rather than out protecting and serving the public?  I doubt it.  I would imagine most citizens who are dodging stray bullets and alike, don't really give two shits if Kitty or Bambi are getting shtooped in the pooper with an unprotected tally-whacker.  Especially when they're crouching behind a sofa-bed, trying to avoid getting shot in yet another drive-by.

I don't think it's going to be a very enforceable law.  Unless the City of Los Angeles takes to hiring inspectors.  City officials who must remain on set of any pornographic film being produced in the greater Los Angeles area.  An officer of the municipality who must ensure that proper safe sex is occurring during every facet of every scene.  Given the amount of productions done everyday in L.A., that will definitely be a full time job.  That being said, how and where do I apply for this job?

Home Field Advantage

I never watched the game yesterday, that pitted off the Pittsburgh Steelers against the Denver Broncos.   I have, however, heard more than my fair share of the aftermath.  The surprise win of the Broncos over the Steelers.  I'm a bit of a Steelers fan, myself, but hardly have enough of myself invested in following the team, enough to be so shaken up by their defeat.

People on television and the radio have been commenting on the loss as well as comments made by Tim Tebow following the game.  Although I know he's really religious, I thought it was sad that he thanked Jesus, his lord and savior, before the efforts of his fellow team mates.  I never watched the game, but I'm fairly certain that it wasn't Jesus out there guarding his ass from being ground in the turf by the Steelers' defensive tackle.  Not that I believe had He been out there, that he'd have made much of an impact on those grid iron gladiators.

So, as I stated, I heard much of anything else on the radio this afternoon, but the announcers disbelief in the upset, adding how many question the "theory" that God is backing the Denver Broncos.  The radio announcer even went so far as to invite phone calls and tweets on the subject, urging everyone to share their thoughts.

Now I, personally, have never subscribed to such nonsense as God, Jesus and religion, really.  I've read some of the stories and whatnot while being counselled through some troubled times a few years back.  The stories were enlightening, but that's all they were.  Just stories, as far as I'm concerned.  However, for the sake of this blog, I will venture out and make like I believe.  At least for the next ten minutes or so.

People cannot believe that of all the teams in the NFL, that God would choose the Denver Broncos over any of the other teams.  What about the New Orleans Saints?  I think He may have helped them out a couple years back when he gave them the SuperBowl.  What about the San Diego Padres?  Well...  That's BASEBALL!!!!  And I'm pretty sure he'd be all up in Anaheim, anyway.

If God were to choose a football team to back, it only makes sense that it'd be the Denver Broncos.  Denver, Colorado after all, is The Mile-High City, and is arguably one of the highest points in the continental U.S.A.  Therefore, with the city elevated so high in the sky, wouldn't that make it closer to Heaven and therefore offer "home field advantage"?

Perhaps the Bronco's aren't The Lord's favorite team, but they play just down the road from the Big Guy's house.  Within walking distance, so to speak.  Then with Tim Tebow coming up through the ranks and being so gracious and thankful to God for his skills and talents, it's hard to not like the guy.  So of course God would help him out.  Why wouldn't he?  People go to church every Sunday and pray for help and guidance. Why wouldn't God help guide someone to the SuperBowl?  If Tebow and the Broncos win, it's likely to put asses in the seats at church the following Sunday...  It'd be win/win for the Big Guy.

Right or wrong.  It makes no difference if Tim Tebow believe that God is guiding his efforts.  As long as he plays with purity in his heart and the strength of a good team beside him, whether the gain the victory this weekend against Tom Brady and the Patriots or not, he should be satisfied..., EVERYONE should be satisfied with a memorable season for the Broncos.  Amen to that!

Mutilated Out Of Contempt

I realize that I seem to be dwelling on the fact that my arm is f*cked.  However, if you were in my shoes, I'm fairly certain you, too, would be out of sorts about it.  I apologize for the graphic nature of this photograph and the inset picture, but failing to elaborate on the atrocity that is currently my disfigured elbow, I find that an aptly placed photograph can speak volumes, as opposed to what words fail to do.

As stated yesterday, my physician viewed the repair done by the out-of-town doctor, to be less than below par.  She stated that more time should've been invested in stitching the laceration up.  I would have to agree with that synopsis.  While there was only one doctor on hand at the time of my visit, there was also next to no one in the hospital.  I'm sure a few minutes more, couldn't have hurt.  But I recall the small town doc, showing much disdain and didn't seem very stoked to be working the holiday.  On the other hand, she was the one who decided as a young girl that if she studied hard, she could one day become a doctor and flee the backwards life in South Africa.  Mind you, being stuck in the middle of a "one-horse town", probably wasn't what she was hoping for either.  So in a moment of rebellion, she falsely thought me to be one of the local rubes and stitched my up like she was wearing boxing gloves.

Fine.  I get that.  I don't like small towns either.  But I clearly stated that I was from the city.  That statement alone, should've bumped me up to premium care.  Instead I get marked for life, needing to explain to onlookers for the rest of my days, why my arm looks like it was chewed by a f*cking rabid badger.

I am not happy.  2012, thus far, is proving itself to be pretty f*cked up.  Happy New Year, all!!!

Boo Boo

The original intention for today's blog was to tell tales of spirits, specters and shadows caught in the corner of my eye, but that needs to be placed upon the proverbial "back burner" for now, whilst I instead, direct my attentions, once again, toward the topsy-turviness that is 2012.

It seems from the outset of Christmas 2011, my luck has been..., well..., kinda f*cked.  I mentioned how I'd slipped on the ice at my uncles house on Boxing Day, resulting in splitting my left elbow open and requiring stitches from the small hospital located in his small town.  Stitches that couldn't have been put in any worse, if I'd have done it myself, while blindfolded.  Some have speculated in the days since my discovery of this that I was "over-reacting", but I got confirmation from my physician this morning, that the stitch job was, indeed, a sloppy one at best.  She (my doctor) was also shocked that they neglected to X-ray me, despite my lack of immobility.  I inquired about the cause of the intense pain I experience when I bump or even touch the tender spot, in which she speculated that there may be a chip or a barb created from the tumble.

My doctor efficiently removed the stitches from the hack job mending and then proceeded to give me my monthly injection.  Without going into any sort of detail, suffice it to say that yours truly was born with a condition in which a certain chemical is not produced in my body, which prompts the need for me to visit my physician on a month-by-month basis, to receive an injection of a controlled substance.  Today was my regular visit, and the stitch removal was an "added bonus".  She'd just stuck me in the left buttock when I heard her say, "Oh wow, Jeff.  You're arm is bleeding." 

I wasn't just bleeding from my left arm, where the stitches had been just moments before, but the blood was pouring out, like if you turned a faucet slightly open.  A good steady trickle, it was.  I got blood on the chair. On the floor.  On my shoe.., my nearly new sneaker.  And later on I noticed that I even got a few droplets on the back of my jeans.

Without hesitation, my doctor leaped to the counter in the small examining room to grab some tissue and antiseptic, but in doing so, left me standing there with my britches slung down under my butt cheek.  Next was equal to a comedic routine from an old vaudevillian show.  My doctor fighting to contain the bleeding in my arm, my struggling to hold onto the bandages while trying to pull my pants up using nothing more than free-will.  Eventually, we managed to collect our faculties and she held the bandages while I pulled my pants up with my opposite hand.

Another physician came in to assess the new situation and together we came to the conclusion that the original doctor who stitched me up in that small town hospital located in my uncle's small town, must've pierced a vein when stitching up my elbow and when the stitches were removed, the bleeding started all over again.  FYI:  It's a good thing that young doctor in Tisdale, SK is an attractive young woman, because she sucks shit as a doctor!!!  

Now, here I sit, giant tensor bandage wrapped firmly around my arm, preventing me from bending it.  Wrapped solidly enough to compactly compress the new bandage applied to my arm, while loose enough to continue blood flow to my fingertips.  The theory is that the bandage will help the wound congeal and clot and tomorrow sometime I get to remove said bandage and hopefully (I say with hands clasped and looking up to the imaginary man in the sky) I won't resume bleeding when I do so.  If I do, I'm essentially f*cked.  I can't drive AND hold tissue upon tissue to my arm.

THAT is my 2012, thus far.  A real roller coaster of cluster-f*cks!  I'll keep you posted.  And I will write the haunting tale soon.

Twenty-12: Day 2 - People Are Full Of Shit!

I cannot help but think that Tom Cruise would be a cool guy to know.  That is, if he were anything like the characters he plays onscreen, rather than the dip-shit he is in real life.  I saw "Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol" today and as expected it was pretty f*cking incredible.  From what I saw of it, that is.  Of the 133 minutes of play, I did see almost all of it, but did find myself needing to escape to the washroom a couple of times.  Damned soft drinks go right through a guy.  The movie wasn't as good as it's predecessors, but it only missed the mark by a smidge.  I still strongly recommend it to anyone who is a fan of the movie franchise, or just enjoys a "kick-some-motherf*cking-ass" action movies.

After the flick, I ventured into the mall, bent on acquiring a much needed calendar for the walls in my kitchen and home "office/wrestling memorabilia" room.  What a freakin' mistake.  Wall to wall people, and nary a pretty girl among them.  Well...  Not entirely.  Out of the thousand or so people I had the misfortune to make eye-contact with, I'd estimate about three of the females never made me want to vomit in my mouth.  The rest, however, looked like they all fell out of the ugly tree and hit every f*cking branch on the way down.  They put the UGH! in ugly.  Woof!

After that little adventure, I stopped off at another store, looking for a kitchen counter-top appliance I've been looking for for awhile.  I got that, then moved on to Sobey's to pick up some refreshments to take to work in my lunch.  It was at this time that I was reminded of the stupidity of people.

I've always operated under the ideology that when it comes to being out and about, the larger object always gets the right of way.  To clarify, this means, a vehicle takes precedence over a pedestrian (when not in a crosswalk, of course), just as a bus prevails over a VW Beetle or a common-variety sedan.  And if memory serves, Godzilla overrules every f*cking thing on the planet, except maybe a Transformer.  I don't know.  I'd have to see them stand back-to-back, to make this determination.

So this being said, I am always bewildered that even though I can be blatantly seen backing out of a parking spot in my truck, people ALWAYS seem to rush past my back bumper, 99% of the time, unseen until the very last second, then they're always cursing me out.  I say "F*CK THEM!!!"  If they're stupid enough to run behind a truck that's backing up, they deserve to f*cking get hit!

I know for a fact that unless you're a driving instructor or Andrew Younghusband (host of Canada's Worst Driver on Discovery Channel), you're not a good driver.  Furthermore, if someone says that they "are a good driver", then they are in serious f*cking denial.  I admit that I am better than most drivers out on the road today, but also am humble enough to know that I could improve upon those driving skills.

Thankfully, I've made it home once more, truck parked safely in the garage, and I seated behind the keyboard of my computer, tapping away my day's experience.  If I could get away with never having to leave the house, or leave it at a minimum, I would proudly take that opportunity.  People be f*cking crazy out there, man.  Like Tom Cruise-crazy!

2012

The year 2012, thus far, hasn't been unlike it's predecessor, 2011.  Although, only a day has passed, it's too early to say that it will be every bit the disappointment that the year 2011 was.

Last year, 2011, wasn't entirely bad.  I was able to find a job that I enjoy somewhat, getting paid enough to dig my way out of the overwhelming debt I'd accumulated in the previous few years.  I was able to remedy a fractured friendship that ended tragically a few years ago with one of my most endearing friends, and through my job, I've been able to form a couple friendships that are proving quite enlightening.  That much is good.  Also, I've been able to forge stronger friendships with the limited number of friends I have at current, which is also good.  And probably one of my proudest moments was rebuilding my credit enough that I could purchase my Mustang Convertible, a toy that I didn't necessarily need, which also makes it more rewarding having acquired it.  For those points, 2011 was quite ideal.

The year 2011, was also the year that I made my greatest life-changing decision, which I won't elaborate on too terribly much, but for the few of you whom I shared this decision with, should know of what I speak of.  As great as this choice was to make, it quickly turned out to be the worst decision I'd ever made up to that juncture.  Tragic and heart-wrenching, and I suffered for it, for quite a few months before shedding those demons to concentrate on moving forward.  This was also another reason for my abandoning the idea of consuming copious amounts of alcohol.  The end result is NEVER good.

The year ended with my slipping on an icy driveway at my uncle's house, resulting in my splitting my elbow wide open, which subsequently lead to some negative reactions to the medication prescribed by the attending physician, who made an abysmal job of stitching my elbow back together.  I learned years ago, after having surgery to reattach my bicep which had tore cleanly off the bone, that if I massaged the stitched areas, the scarring would be minor.  This was true, as both incision points are barely noticeable.  I'm afraid that no amount of massaging of my elbow will ever remedy this f*cking hack job this doctor made on my elbow.  It's quite grotesque, by my standards.

As for the festivities for exiting 2011 and welcoming in the new year, was a site better than last year, which was spent at a faggy country bar.  A saving grace last year was seeing the lovely face of a very good friend of mine.  Beautiful girl.  Truly.  This year, was celebrated at another bar in the city here, where the music was nearly fantastic, despite the DJ, who they claimed was "professional", having played LMFAO's "Party Rock Anthem" four f*cking times throughout the night.  I love the song as much as anyone, and thankfully they played the video for the song during one of it's four run-through's, but even I know this was a bit excessive.  The idiot DJ did also play three country songs, which is pretty gay.  If I recall, I will address these in a later blog, which should further prove that modern country music is gay and will turn it's male listeners gay, as well.

The bar overall, was gross and disgusting.  It was 50% pig's and prostitutes (or at least they looked like hookers).  Another 40% were pregnant women, which there is nothing wrong with that.  In truth, much of the time, I find pregnant women attractive to a point.  However, pregnant and dressed like a wh*re, dancing on a speaker with their tits bobblin' all over the place, not that attractive.  I even saw one chick, lookin' like she was about to give birth, dancing on a speaker, with a bottle of Dasani water in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other.  I guess she wanted to dance to that one song before heading outside to poison her unborn child.  (Loser!)

In all my years of going out on New Year's Eve, I can honestly say that I've never had a New Year's kiss.  Not sure what the significance of the kiss is, but it's still something I'd like to do before I die.  Maybe next year, if the world doesn't come to a crumbling end this December like the ancient Mayan's have speculated. I don't believe in any of that hooey!  I just think it was a case of the Mayans running out of "paper".

Thus far, however, 2012 hasn't been much different than 2011.  I pretty much slept the entire day away.  Never cracked the front door, never ventured outside, despite having planned to do so at some point, before procrastinating and "deciding" to do it tomorrow instead.  

The one thing that 2012 has done so far, was present me with two live acts of lesbianism.  Once inside the bar, where I saw (one of the very few attractive women) stick her tongue down the throat of the pig seated across from her.  Both seemed pretty stoked by the gesture of affection, as was I.  Then in the car parked next to us, was two chicks makin' out and fogging up the windows.  As we were departing the parking lot, I honked my horn, startling the duo who whipped their heads around to gawk at us.  I flashed a "thumbs up", before driving away.  The only way that could have been better, was if there was a flash of boob.  Then again, the year is still pretty young, so there's always tomorrow.  [Wink, wink]

Happy New Year, folks!!