DENIED!!!!

February 29th, comes but once every four years.  Leap year.  Also known as Sadie Hawkins Day, which was unbeknownst to me, prior to today, but they were touting it all freakin' day on the radio.  That and the fact that The Monkees lead singer, Davy Jones died at the age of 66, from a heart attack.  Sad to see someone so special as this die from something so tragic as a heart attack.

The whole time that the radio announcers were promoting the Sadie Hawkins angle, I was wondering "Who the f*ck is Sadie Hawkins?"|

I'm familiar with Sadie Hawkins as far as the Sadie Hawkins Dances, where it is up to the female to choose who she was to partake in the festivities with, rather than the traditional practice which pits the guy against an unforgiving wall of rejection.  I have never asked anyone to a dance.  In fact, I recall only going to one or two dances in school, I think.  I can't remember, to tell the truth...

According to Wikipedia, Sadie Hawkins Dances are primarily in November, so why February 29th is associated with Miss Hawkins, is a mystery to us both.  Sadie Hawkins is also associated with the 1930's comic strip, Little Abner, but beyond that...  I was just too lazy to read on.  What I did learn of it's association with February 29th, is that it's an opportunity for women everywhere to propose marriage to their significant other, thus removing any pressure on him.  I think this is what I need, cuz my record in the marriage proposal column is pretty f*ckin' sad.

All morning on the radio, the female DJ (*Are they still considered DJ's considering everything is digital now?) , whatever the hell her name is, kept promoting the fact that women should be taking the opportunity to ask out that special someone that they've thought about, dreamed about, or even simply "considered".  Then she posed the question, "Have you ever asked anyone out and been horribly rejected?  If so, "call such 'n' such a number and tell us about it.  The worst rejection can win blah blah blah."  Instantly I was reminded of a horrible rejection I got, once upon a time, but didn't know if I was allowed to call in or not.  For one, it's Sadie Hawkins Day, so I'd assume it's just the women who'd be encouraged to call.  And secondly, unlike my workmate, I had work to do, and couldn't take time out to call in for a prize.

The incident that I was reminded of, took place some years ago, when I worked at a gas station.  I was a gas attendant, but at the time, we referred to ourselves as "Fuel Transference Engineers".  It sounded more impressive to laymen.

There was this pretty young woman, girl, whatever, that came in every few days to top up her fuel tank.  We always had pleasant exchanges and short conversations.  Everything seemed nice.  So one day she came driving in to the station and at the urging of a co-worker, I decided to ask her out for a date.  I came up to the car, we exchanged pleasantries and during one of the lulls in the conversation, I took the opportunity to ask her out.  "Hey," I said, "I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me some time?"  I kept it loose and informal.  I didn't want it to seem forced, but the reaction was unpleasant.

She stared straight ahead and with one word said, "NOPE!", with an extra emphasis on the P (pah).  Then that was it.  A long, awkward pause.  I said "No problem.  I was just curious."  And she continued to stare straight ahead.  She passed me a $20 bill for her gas and drove away.  I'd been rejected before, that wasn't anything new, but I'd never been shut down with such a resounding reply.  "NOPE-aaah" the word still echoed in my head.  That f*cking stung, as I recall.  Then to make matters worse, she returned a couple hours later, her call filled with friends.  She parked off to one corner of the lot and I could see her pointing at me followed by the sound of laughter erupting from the open windows.

We never spoke much after that, other than exchanges as far as how much fuel she wanted in her car and all.  I don't know what ever happened to her, nor do I really give two shits.  She could've fallen off the face of the Earth, for all I care.  She was mean and I don't need assholes like that in my otherwise perfect life.

That Kind of Tree

Once upon a time, I worked at this job, where the employees were the ones who interviewed new hopefuls, intent on gaining employment with the company.  It was a good idea, as we had to work with these frickin' people and interviewing them ourselves, made it easier to find a good fit, rather than allowing management to blindly hire any f*ckwad.  Unfortunately, some f*ckwads managed to leak through.  This is, in part, why I no longer work at that place of business.  That and the fact that the job sucked ass, anyway.

In the interviewing process, we were encouraged to ask the potential worker many questions.  Questions that involved past employment and tasks that they may have taken part in.  Also included in that list was shit like "What's your strongest asset?" and "What's one thing you could improve upon?"  The latter question I recall one kid, who was slunk way down in his chair, said "Getting to work on time."  Needless to say, that f*ckwad, never got the job.

Also mixed in with those questions, were some absurd questions.  Stuff like, "If you were a superhero, who would you be and why?"  I think during my interview I said Batman, because he has all those wonderful toys.  (The comic book Batman and not that gay Adam West bullshit that was on TV in the 60's).

Today, while I was contending with an order from H-E-double-hockey sticks, I paused for a moment and gazed out the window of the office, when one of those stupid-ass questions popped into my head.  "If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be and why?"  I remembered sitting back in my high-backed leather chair for a moment, bewildered by the obtuse question that sat atop of my mind.  Then the answer came to me.  A sudden epiphany, a proverbial light bulb going off.  (Or more likely, more brain cells committing suicide.)

WHAT KIND OF TREE WOULD (I) BE AND WHY?  I hate pine trees as a rule, but if I had to be any sort of tree, it'd have to be an evergreen tree.  Like the Frasier Fir pictured above.  Why?  Because they keep their pine needles all year round, which is good, because I look horrible naked!

Happy St. Valentine's Day, Everyone!!!

It's funny how most of those who refer to St. Valentine's Day as a "stupid holiday", are usually the very same people who are also single when February 14th comes to pass.  I don't find the day as particularly undesirable, as it is a marketing ploy to guilt people into buying expensive shit for their love interests.  Not to sound like a cheap f*ck, but I guess ya gotta call a spade a spade, but I would much rather celebrate the occasion a few days after the fact.  Express one's affection while saving a few bucks.  You can't put a price on love?  Well, apparently, I CAN!

I've never, to the best of my recollection, ever had a significant other on St. Valentine's Day.  I'm certain it's not because of my thriftiness, but just bad timing.  I'm sure if I did have that special girl in my life, though, I wouldn't reserve the romance to one day out of the year.  A true gentleman should celebrate his love, throughout the year.  Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be WAY off base.

Once again, though, February 14th enters and exits, leaving me in it's dust, destined to watch it's tail lights disappear into the distance.  I sent a text to a friend earlier, commenting on how this mutual friend of ours had a date for St. Valentine's Day, yet (ironically) a sexy bitch like myself, is left at home to drown my sorrows in a deep chilled glass of chocolate milk.  Sadly, this is not a ritual reserved for romantic holidays alone.  My friend replied that I at least had my cat, Monkey, to keep me company.  To which I promptly replied, tongue-in-cheek, of course, that it would be wrong for anyone to violate their pet in such a way.  All kidding aside, though, he has once more, not left my side.  Even now, he is slumbering on my left foot, cutting off the circulation to my toes.  The speculation of my comments, though, does remind me of a story I'd heard a friend tell me, once upon a time.  I don't know if this were a true story or an urban myth, as over the years, I've heard a few similar tales.

It seems that a group of friends prepared a surprise party for a friend of theirs who was single throughout the holiday season, and with St. Valentine's Day upon her, was feeling especially out of sorts.  They'd gathered in the young woman's apartment, eagerly awaiting her return home.  Their rustling soon being hushed as they heard her keys jingling on the other side of the door.  Quietly, they waited for this girl to turn on the lights, prompting them to call out "SURPRISE"!  However, instead of turning on the light, she instead rounded the corner and headed down the hall to her bedroom, bags in hand.  The small menagerie of friends looked at one another with looks of confusion and pride in pulling off a perfect surprise.  They continued to wait in the dark, surmising that she would soon exit her bedroom and re-enter the main area of the small apartment.  Alas, this moment never came and people began murmuring and getting antsy.  Realizing the jig was up, one of the friends volunteered to fetch the young woman from her bedroom, and reveal the surprise.  When she got to the bedroom door, she knocked and entered without waiting for a response.  It was then that she discovered the young woman, completely naked on her bed with nothing more than a jar of peanut butter, it's contents slathered over her nether-regions and her golden retriever lapping it up.  SURPRISE...?!?

Happy St. Valentine's Day Everyone!!!

Cookie Crumbles

I was drowsy, going in and out of consciousness, when I learned of her passing.  I'd fallen asleep in bed with the television on, so my lethargy was from exhaustion, and not drug induced like Whitney Houston's life had become in recent... uh... decades.  Still, her death comes as a surprise.  To me as well as the world over.

For those unaware of her fame, specifically fans of today's bubble gum-cookie cutter pop icons instead of artists of substance, Whitney Houston rose to fame in the mid-80's and garnered herself many gold and platinum albums.  She coined the phrase "The children are our future" from her song "The Greatest Love of All".  Practically a child, her first album, the self-titled "Whitney Houston" debuted when the singer was just twenty-one years of age.  So in a sense, she's matured before the world.

It was throughout the early part of her career, that she was able to ascend to superstardom through her music and movie appearances, acting in films like "Waiting To Exhale" and "The Preacher's Wife" (which paid her an astounding $10M, a lot of dough at the time).

She married former "New Edition" member, Bobby Brown, who was a success in his own solo career, with hits like "My Prerogative" (later covered by Britney Spears) and "On Our Own" featured in Ghostbusters II (1989).  However, life with Bobby wasn't all that it was cracked up to be (pardon the pun).

It seemed like her life and career after that union came to be, quickly began to spin out of control.  The relationship and marriage was rocky, even at the best of times, and the only real success the duo had, came with the birth of their daughter, Bobbi Kristina Brown (1993).  Reports of improprieties began to flow into the media, like a rushing waterfall.  For a time, you couldn't turn on the television without viewing reports of their crazed drug-induced antics.  Two personalities who'd once held the world in the palm of their hands, were now the dirty crusties found under your couch.  The picture above is the best illustration I could produce that showed the tremendous "before and after" affects of the drugs.  Undeniably, Whitney Houston was once a vibrant beauty queen with a face that could launch a thousand ships.  Look at that gorgeous smile.  Then look at the inset of what a horrible hag she'd become.  A true American-tragedy.

Though she'd attempt many comebacks over the years, I don't think she ever truly shook the drugs.  I can't say that I know what she sounded like the past five or ten years, but I'm willing to bet that it failed exponentially when compared to her former prowess.

As I read the reports of Whitney's passing, I am a little bothered by the instant assumption that foul play must've been involved.  I see the term "criminal intent" repeated throughout the media circus.  A concept now being tossed up by fellow celebrities.  Without viewing all the facts, I am confident in reporting to the world that there was NO CRIMINAL INTENT, unless you include the dealer who sold the drugs to Whitney Houston.  In the weeks to come, after the autopsy and all the tests come back, it will be revealed that Whitney Houston died of a drug overdose.  That's how all the great ones seem to die.  Elvis Presley, Jim Morrison, John Belushi, Janis Joplin and even that child molester, Michael Jackson, all died due to the monkey on their backs.

I don't understand the need for drugs, especially when you're someone famous.  They always say it's the pressure of the business.  Bullshit.  I've worked in retail.  THERE'S pressure.  People yelling at you and treating you like shit.  The lives of singers and actors...  Pressure?  You're a f*cking singer, for Christ's sake.  You sing!  That's it!  You do what you love!  Where's the pressure?

Although, I have never been a fan of her music.  That genre failing to meld with the likes of the styles I prefer to listen to, it doesn't mean I can't appreciate true artistry.  One of her greatest hits, was a song originally recorded by country crooner, Dolly Parton, "I Will Always Love You", from the movie (and a personal favourite of mine), "The Bodyguard", starring Kevin Costner.  I think despite the way her life ended, she will go down in the annuls of history as one of the true great ones, continuing to be loved, ALWAYS.

What Denomination of Coin Would Make You Retrieve From a Toilet?

There are certainly some advantages to being a guy in respect to relieving one's self.  When nature calls and there's not any restrooms nearby to take advantage of, a guy can duck into any secluded spot to relieve themselves.  As bashful o' guy I am, admittedly I am no stranger to many a dark alley way, if I get caught betwixt home and an outside destination.  Most recently, New Year's morning I could have been found hiding behind a well-placed bush at the local Chrysler Dealership.  Not my proudest moment albeit, but I was quite taken with the originality of the positioning.  Like Stonehenge, anytime I pass that area from that point forward, I can smile secretively at knowing that I pee'd there.  (Actually, truth be known...  I've never pee'd at Stonehenge, but it is on my "To Do List"...)

I'm not a fan of the standing and peeing practice.  It's not something I do at home.  Mostly because of the mess associated with it.  Wives burdened with the unfortunate task of cleaning the bathroom can agree that not only is a man's "aim" off, but even when the stream is placed in the dead center of the bowl, the splashing water really mucks up the surrounding area.  Disgusting, to say the least.

In my personal life, I am a sitter, or for those looking at the listed illustrations to the left, I am the #7 (The Just-Woken-Up).  This gives me a moment to relax, collect my thoughts, and avoid the nastiness of spatter.  I practice this at work too.  Given the hectic pace of my days sometimes, it is always nice to steal away a moment or two to kick back (so to speak) and catch my breath. I don't literally kick back.  It's not like I have an ottoman in there and I can put my feet up and think about what it'd be like to win the lottery or tell my boss to shove the job up his ass.  I don't have that kind of time.

There are only two of us working out of this branch, and each one of us gets our own bathroom.  Mine is the larger of the two and the one that smells more pleasant than the other.  I don't know what the hell that guy eats, but his bathroom smells like the sewer backed up in there.  I've had the misfortune of having to duck my head in there on an occasion or two and it was not pleasant.  Unfortunately, however, when the boss-type guys come to town, they don't really give a crap which bathroom they use, and on more than one occasion, I've stepped into my bathroom at work to discover that not only is the lid left up (I prefer to keep it closed at all times), but the seat is left up as well.  F*cking disgusting, because up on the wall, seemingly scarred in "off-white", or more of a clear with a yellowy tinge, is the clear cut markings of urine spatter.  Even worse yet...  The janitors have been neglecting to wash the wall, so it's a daily reminder of those yokels.  Thankfully, however, the staining is not as bad as it is in my co-worker's bathroom.  Yech!!!

I don't always do the sitting thing, though.  Public washrooms are a necessary evil sometimes, and there is no f*cking way in hell I'm going to set my rosy ass cheeks down on a public toilet.  Not unless the janitor is exiting the bathroom as I'm going in.  Then there's a pretty good chance that no one has gotten in there yet to piss all over the seat.  And why the f*ck do people piss on the seat?  I don't get that.  Lift the f*cking seat.  It takes less than a second!  Don't want to touch it with your hands?  Use your feet then, stupid.  I do it all the time and it may take an extra half-second, but so what?!?  Pay it forward, for the poor f*ckin' guy who has no other choice but to drop a deuce!!

I have a shy bladder.  Nine times outta ten, if I know someone suspects me of going to the bathroom, I can't go.  If I go into a washroom and there are other's there, I can't go.  If (God forbid) there's a line-up in the can, I can't go.  If I really have to go and get up the courage to sidle up to the urinal, and someone is waiting behind me, I can't go.  I remember years ago, I went to a KISS concert.  I had to go into about seven bathrooms before I could find a free stall to go in and urinate.  Shy bladder.

If I'm drunk, on the other hand.  No problem.  I can pee like a champion.  But don't talk to me.  People, especially at the bar, get all f*cking chatty and they never have anything of any value to say.  It's always just stupid bullshit.  Whether I'm drunk or sober, if you don't have anything pertinent to say, just stay quiet.  If I'm peeing, and my leg suddenly starts on fire, then fine.  Tell me, "Uh dude.  Your leg is on fire."  That would be an important thing to say.  Then together we can figure out who's in a better position to piss on my leg to extinguish the fire.  If all you want to do is talk about the weather.  Then shut the f*ck up.  I've been outside.  I know what the weather is like.  I don't need the update.  I don't know how many times R____, this Filipino guy I used to work with, would ask me how my day was, while I was peeing.  I'd constantly ignore him and he'd get all huffy.  But unless you work in the porn industry, if you have your dick in your hand, there should never be any words exchanged by anyone, especially two dudes.

Sitting down at the toilet to conduct your "business", I've discovered, isn't without it's disadvantages.  This morning I was taking a moment at work.  Relaxing and writing a quick tweet to Kevin Smith, thanking him for the awesome show he put on last night at the Scotia Center in Toronto, which was fed LIVE around North America.  A disgusting practice as well.  I don't usually like texting, tweeting, or engaging in telephone conversations, while I've got my junk out.  At home if I've stepped out of the shower and the telephone rings, I quickly throw on a pair of shorts.  When I was finished with my tweeting task, I stood up and heard a jingling sound, followed by a "sploosh".  I looked down into the bowl to discover that somehow a 25cent piece had escaped my pocket and wound up at the bottom of the yellowish toilet bowl.  Now I had a real dilemma on my hands...

What denomination of coin has to drop into a pee-filled toilet bowl, that will urge you to retrieve it?  A penny is hardly worth it.  A nickel...?  Probably not.  A dime?  Hmm.  A quarter?  Well, apparently my cut-off point is the dime, because after pausing for a moment, I actually heard my inner voice command me, "IT'S A QUARTER OF A DOLLAR!!!  DIVE!  DIVE!  DIVE!!!"  My hand then driving to the bottom of the surprisingly still cool piss-riddled water.  The quarter slipping out of my fingers and nearly going down the drain, I thought "I have too much invested in this now to give up!" and I drove my hand deeper, pulling the quarter to safety.  My greatest relief being that the quarter was breathing on it's own and never needed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.  

The stupid shit I will do over the course of my day, is sometimes unbelievable.  It's like I have no shame, and when I really put some thought into it, I guess I really don't.  I don't really give a shit what people think of me.  Well.  There's one person who matters, but that's another story for another day.

So what of the ramifications of admitting to the world that I choose sitting over standing to urinate?  I don't care.  My biggest thrill, in regards to this, aside from never having to wash piss spatter off the outside of my toilet, was the discovery that Cleveland Brown, from FOX-TV's "The Cleveland Show", sits down to pee.  I know it's a cartoon, but it's still kinda cool.  Now if y'all will excuse me.  I gotta go take a whiz!!!