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!

Dead Silence

"As it was going down it was getting louder and louder and then all of a sudden it was just quiet." described an eye witness via telephone interview Monday, "When it hit the ground, I didn't see it, but then there was just dead silence."

Saturday morning two planes collided in the skies over the small town of St. Brieux, Saskatchewan, and while such plane crashes, similar to this, crash all over the world, there are usually mitigating circumstances involved.  Normally some evidence that would point investigators in the right direction, in hopes of solving the mystery of why two perfectly good aircraft, with two (presumably) capable pilots, met with such tragedy.  As of the writing of this piece, nothing clear has been released by investigators.

The mystery that plagued me, though, ever since first learning of this tragedy this morning, is how the f*ck is it possible for two planes to collide head-on?  If the air space over St. Brieux was congested with hoards of flying aircraft, one could plausibly concede that such traffic would be a contributing factor to the crash.  However, being that St. Brieux (and area) is practically in the middle of nowhere, chances are that this factor is not a contributor to the accident.

So how the hell do you suppose that the ONLY two airplanes in the sky for virtually hundreds of miles around, managed to plow into one another.  I speculated that one was flying out of the direction of the sun and the other was flying into it, but according to authorities, and given the time of day, this simply was not the case.  So I am baffled.  Not to 'toot my own horn', but I'm pretty good at deciphering a good mystery or puzzle, but this one's got me hooped.

All I know is the odds of something like this occurring, have got to be greater than winning the lottery.  That's like the only two people standing in a desert, firing a gun into the air and winding up shooting one another to death.  Astronomical odds and they managed to do it.  It is senseless.  Senseless that five innocents had to lose their lives, including that of an eleven year old boy, due to a fluke.

Screwin' the Pooch Pays Off For This Son of a Bitch

Years ago, I came up with an idea about creating artificial plants that included dead and dying leaves.  After all, when all the leaves look prim and proper, then of course the plant is going to look phony.  However, when mowing the lawn in my back yard, I am forever picking up leaves from my neighbours plants.  My neighbour's FAKE plants.  I can't understand how a plant which is primarily made up of plastic and fabric, could possibly lose it's leaves.  Yet here I am.  Bending over and removing plastic material from my lawn and tossing it over the rear fence, back into their yard.

Another factor that I find bothersome about tackling yard work, is the electric cord for my mower.  I have a sizeable yard and therefore require a lengthy extension cord.  So there's that constant necessity of swinging the cord to the side, practically throwing my arm out of joint in the process.  Not to mention, the retarded fashion that my yard is cut up, what with a duo of shrubs bisecting the yard.

The worst thing about doing yard work, though, is my allergies.  I am extremely allergic to grass.  Freshly cut grass.  During the summer months, I'm unable to open my windows for the fear of dusty grass remnants wafting into my house, thus causing extreme discomfort, health-wise.  And despite wearing a dust mask, which works in most cases, it does not always do so.  Today, in fact, by the end of the tedious task, my eyes were swelled shut and I had loads of "material" flowing from my nostrils.  I was in terrible disarray.  While in the garage, I managed to smoke my head two or three times before I finally retired for the day.

I had originally planned on doing this dastardly task yesterday, but opted to remain inside instead.  My neighbour to the north of me was out and about, mowing his lawn, so I'd have really been up shit creek.  I waited until today, instead and thank goodness I did.  My neighbour T__, to the south of me, was about to begin his own bout of yard work, when I came into the front yard with mower in tow and a big white mask over my face.  

"You look like you're ready to perform surgery." he joked.

"I wish." I replied, adding that I was deathly allergic to grass and the affects that it has on me.

"That's terrible." he responded, "What happens to you?"  I explained the extreme occurrences, and that's when he offered up the services of his daughters.  

"They can swing by and mow your lawn when they do ours." he explained.  "And they'll do it for $10."

AWESOME!!!  I f*cking hate yard work and would gladly pay someone $10 a week to do it for me.  That is a sweet deal.  It looks, to me, like screwing the pooch this weekend, really paid off.  Yay!

Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!

Construction has begun on the empty lots behind my work.  It was cool watching all the machines strategically move the earth around.  I found myself, for a moment, caught up in the excitement of it all, wishing that I'd made different choices in life.  Choices that would've placed me behind the controls of these behemoth machines, instead of pondering from afar.

Watching the boom swing back and forth, I thought back to when I was a small child.  I grew up on a farm, not far from the city.  In the winter time, it was up to my father to clear out the snow from the yard to allow the easy entrance and exit of our vehicles.  My dad did not have a snow blower, relying on an aluminum scoop shovel, instead.  Either it seemed like we had lots and lots of snow, because I was a small child, or this particular year in my memory, we were relentlessly bombarded with snow.  So my dad could be heard clearing away the snow with his shovel.  "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!" would echo off the building encompassing the yard. "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!"  And we had a sizable yard, too.  Not a small driveway, but a grand-sized yard and a long lane-way that connected it to the highway. A front-end bucket for his tractor would have been a worthwhile investment, but instead.... "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!"

So one day, my sister and I were in the city with my mom, who came across these children's snow shovels.  They were red or blue or both, with a picture of a snowman in a winter scene.  "Would you like a snow shovel?" my mother asked us kids.  As I recall, our faces lit up and both were thrilled at the prospect of obtaining our own shovels.  Then we could go help dad clear the snow from the yard.  Up to then, it looked like a lot of fun.  "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!"

No sooner did we arrive at home, than did my sister and I go running out to begin our crusade of helping our father clear the snow that continually blew into the yard.  "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!" continued to echo off the buildings, as my sister and I rounded the corner of the house, shovels in hand.  My dad was happy to see his smiling children, with shovels in hand and promises of help.  He pointed out a spot where we could begin our assistance.  "Clip! Clip! Swish!" we began, moving small increments of snow.  "Clip! Clip! Swish!"  Our efforts were small in comparison to the gargantuan amounts of snow our dad was able to move, and our shovels barely made a sound as they cut into the snow, unlike the thunderous clunks our dad's shovel made.

Soon, I realized that my dad didn't do this task on a nearly daily basis, because it was fun, but did it out of necessity.  This wasn't a game for him, but work.  As quick as I thought it was a wonderful idea to get the shovel to help my dad, I was wanting to desert my dad.  My sister, if I recall, being much younger than myself, had no qualms about dropping her shovel and returning to the warmth of the house.  I tried to hold on longer, but soon claimed to be cold and was encouraged by my dad to return to the house to warm up.

It's funny the shit you remember from the most insignificant and innocent of moments throughout your day...

So as I stood there, in the back of the shop, watching the earth moving equipment push the darkened soil about, I wished I could be the guy behind the controls of the machine, but almost as quickly, realized that it's probably a lot more actual work than it is fun to maneuver the equipment.  As I've learned in the last few days..;  Work isn't supposed to be fun...  Go figure!

It Thounds Like I'm Lithping

Although the original movie was released 35 years ago on May 25th, Star Wars geeks have hijacked May the 4th, like Stormtroopers overtaking a Corellian freighter in search of black market booty.  Wisely they should, as May the 4th, seems tailor-made to accommodate George Lucas' visionary trilogies.

I've heard reference to this date before, but today, I never really put two and two together to get May the 4th, let alone "May the 4th be with you".  Boy oh boy, though, once I clued in, I felt the loss of some very cool acknowledgments the whole day through.

By some sort of irony, I'd already planned to watch all of the Star Wars flicks back-to-back-to-back this weekend, with my boy (my cat) Monkey.  We sat down the other night and watched the third Robot Chicken Star Wars collection, but he didn't seem to get any of the jokes or references.  Being that he only turns three years old (tomorrow), it's a given that he's never seen any of the Star Wars movies.  Although I prefer the Star Trek films to the Star Wars movies, one simply cannot go through life having never seen the awesomeness that is STAR WARS.

So tomorrow, instead of swigging back cervezas with my amigos, I will instead be celebrating my boy's birthday and watching Star Wars.  Although, between you and I, I've got Monkey convinced that the entire world is celebrating Cinco de Mayo, because of his being born and not because of Mexico's desire to celebrate a warring victory over the French on May 5th, 1862.  So they beat the French!  So f*cking what?!?  EVERYBODY beats the French.  They surrender.  That's what they do.  THAT'S what the French do best.  That and smell bad (because they don't bathe in France)...

Live Long and Prosper!