First Amendment Infringement

There's a saying: You can't teach an old dog new tricks.  So how does society expect an old dog from the backwoods of Louisiana to change his perspective of the world, especially one who relies so heavily on the teachings of the Bible?

Recently, the Duck Commander family patriarch, Phil Robertson, was quoted as stating some "off-colour" remarks involving gays and blacks, which has raised such a media hell storm, that the Arts & Entertainment channel (A&E) which broadcasts the Robertson's 'reality' show, Duck Dynasty, to act against Phil Robertson and suspend him from future episodes for an undisclosed period of time.  This is hogwash, in my opinion.

First of all, just about ANY comment, when taken out of context, can appear (on the surface) to be belligerent against a whole slough of people of differing faiths and lifestyles.  I recall a comment that former Minnesota Governor, Jesse Ventura made a decade or so ago, in Playboy Magazine, where he was quoted saying that "people who need religion as a crutch".  In passing, this might be offensive to the entire Christian sect, but if you take the entire comment into consideration, it wasn't offensive at all, which referred to religion as: "a crutch for weak-minded people who need strength".  In it's entirety, the former Governor was referring to those in a moment of weakness, use religion as an instrument to gain strength.

The questionable comments made by Mr. Robertson in the January 2014 issue of GQ magazine, have been taken out of context, for the most part.  In his comments [Phil] never targeted homosexuals directly, but lumped all kinds of sin (as determined by the Bible) will not inherit the Kingdom of God. Included in the comment were the sins of adultery, drunkards, the greedy and idolaters, just to name a few, but isn't it convenient that these facts have been omitted from the controversy?

It's a common misconception that gays and lesbians are too overly sensitive, a trait that they often denied, yet anytime a public figure makes an off-handed remark, HOLY SH!T, the claws come out and there's a rainstorm of tears.  It's not often that I would agree with Sarah Palin on anything (if ever), but I DO agree that Phil Robertson's Freedom of Speech is being infringed upon.

Adopted on December 15, 1791, the First Amendment in the Bill of Rights in the American Constitution clearly states the Freedom of Religion as well as the Freedom of Speech.  These days, 222 years later, you're allowed to practice Freedom of Speech, voicing your opinions, just as long as your opinions conform to those of the masses.  It may be because I am Canadian, but this just doesn't sound right to me.

Admittedly, I am not a religious person.  I don't believe in God, Jesus, Heaven or Hell, but if they do exist, I'm fairly certain I'm destined for someplace hot.  That being said, I don't condemn Robertson for his beliefs.  Whatever it takes to be a better person, then I'm all for it.  And while I may not fully support all of the comments made in this questionable GQ article, I DO support Phil Robertson's right to say it.

In the end, I doubt the author of the article, Drew Magary, referred to all of his notes from the interview accurately.  Thus, creating a more controversial article, selling more magazines and promoting himself into the limelight.

I work with a nice woman who happens to be a lesbian.  There are a few bible thumping people who work along side of us who strongly disapprove of her lifestyle "choice" and have voiced their opinions quite loudly.  This doesn't bother her though.  She knows the truth and is happy being who she is.

It's not right for A&E to boot Phil Robertson off the network.  For the most part, the show promotes a good, clean and healthy (despite the ratty beards) way of living.  They have wholesome values which is prominently conveyed to their viewers each week.  Although, Phil dislikes the amount of religion that fails to make it to the air, I'm happy that I don't have to listen to the jargon.  If anything, A&E should learn from CBS's Big Brother debacle this past summer, and simply post a warning at the start of every episode absconding themselves of any shared beliefs and/or opinions stated during the program (or the members thereafter).

The rest of the Robertson family are proudly standing by the family head and have clearly stated that they'll walk away from the smash A&E hit if Phil isn't allowed to be a part of the program.  I love this show and will miss seeing it every week, but I respect their decision to quit and support it whole-heartedly.

They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks...  I honestly believe that this old dog [Phil] doesn't need to be taught any lessons.  I DO believe that America simply needs to relax and not be so damned sensitive.  Quit being so.... uh... never mind.

Number Two Ain't No Shit

F*CK!  I love that word.  I use that word frequently, though when written [typed], I do choose to censor it by substituting the U with an asterisk (*).  However, saying the F-word, "F*CK", seems gratifying.  Not only that, but I love the versatility of the word "f*ck".  It can be a noun, verb, adjective, or my personal favourite, almost every word in a sentence: "F*ck the f*cking f*ckers!"  It's many uses is covered in an online parody found on YouTube, it's origins are unknown, but who really gives a f*ck? It's f*ckin' funny as all hell. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uSEXgQ58AoM]

In all it's genius, the word "f*ck" tends to offend many people, especially the plethora of bible-thumping folks that I work with.  I don't know why, I'm almost pretty sure the word pre-dates Christ, himself.  As if he never screamed out "F*ck!" when they were hammering spikes through his hands at his crucifixion.  I know if it were me, I would've had a few choice words to share, but I digress.  It is only for these few people (at work) that I make the sacrifice and avoid the excessive usage of the F-word.  More for the avoidance of judgemental looks and alike.  Unfortunately, in the avoidance of uttering this word, I find I'm unable to truly be myself, and THAT kinda f*ckin' sucks.

As much as I love to voice the F-word, loudly and proudly, believe it or not, it is not my most favourite word in the English language.  My favourite, may come as a shock to some.  My most favourite word to use is: EXTRAVAGANZA!!!  It's just fun to say, especially when really emphasized, ex-TRAVA-GAN-za.  My daily life doesn't require it's use very often, which may be why I enjoy the word so much.  It's not common and it's definitely not run-of-the-mill.  If I choose to say the word, it's for something truly special, and I don't have many of those days either.

So that was my number one word, and f*ck was my number two.  That is.., until recently.  A few short days ago, I came to realize that there was a new number two.  F*ck had been pushed back to third place.  A bronze f*cking medal.  The new silver recipient was tremendous.

Actually, that IS the word, number two on my list: TREMENDOUS.  I've used it for years, often describing a mishap involving myself.  Like an injury I sustained a couple years ago, from a fall which had me land with a 'tremendous thud', all the way to the present when I last had a migraine forcing me to miss work; "I woke up this morning with a tremendous headache which requires heavy medication..."

On the way home from work, I tried to round out my top five favourite words, but I found myself unable to do so.  I love the word FREE, but I can't decide if it's the word itself that I'm enamoured with or the concept, because I really do love free shit!  I also like the word 'motherf*cker', but can't decide if that should be included with 'f*ck', as it IS a variation of the word 'f*ck'...  I wish there were some kind of verbal guru I could enlist to help guide me in shaping my Top 5 words.

Even now...  I sit back, hands clasped behind my head, looking up into the corner of the room, I can't think of any other words.  Maybe I only have a top three.  Bah.  F*ck it!  Who really gives a shit?!?

Obsolescence

I learned a new word today at work.  A variation of the word obsolete.  I never thought that work, of all places, is where I would learn something like this, but alas.  I've been schooled.

A line of machinery had been discontinued and as such the parts for that implement are no longer of any value, except (likely) what can be collected via scrap.  A HUGE waste of money, overall, if you ask me.  I mean, why produce an excess of the parts needed for the production of the original line?  Needless to say, there be a f*ck load of shit that needs to be scrapped over the coming weeks.

However, I digress.  Complaining about the stupidity of the higher ups is not my intent for this little blog, today.  To report on the idiocy of the bureaucrats at work would be about as informative as announcing: Water is wet!  No kidding?  Thank you Capt. Obvious!

Obsolescence be thy word.  All day long, I saw it posted on a couple of crates, collected to begin heaping hoards of obsolete parts into for recycling and otherwise.  The word seems so simple, yet complex at the same time.  The more that I repeated the word over in my head, the more the word made me smile and chuckle to myself.  For the word, in and of itself, does not sound like what it actually means.   

The word obsolescence, to me, sounds instead like a virus.  A disease you'd get as a result of eating too much red meat.  I thought tomato-based products at first, as this always makes me race for the bathroom, but red meat can be all the more destructive, if allowed.

"Oh boy!  I shouldn't have gone to Rodney's barbecue and ate all the rare beef.  Now I have a scorching case of Obsolescence.  I can't stray more than a few feet from the toilet before racing back to evacuate my bowels."

Yes.  That's right!  To me, obsolescence sounds like a viral infection that causes you to shit streams of gooey ungodliness.  The kind of unruly turmoil that results in using over half of a roll of ultra-soft toilet paper in hopes of soothing a burning aching backside.  Definitely a double-flusher.

Obsolescence...

A Brilliant Disguise

"We've found something on your scan.  It's an anomaly, of sorts." the doctor told me in a soothing tone.  "We're not certain what it is, exactly."

I was taken aback by the news. 

I'd been under the weather for sometime.  Stricken with pneumonia, to a degree that I'd not felt in a very long time.  So much that it actually hurt to breathe, not to mention the sharp pains, like shards of glass cutting into my chest whenever I'd hack and cough.  These pains are what had me concerned.  The "anomalies" discover in my CT Scan, were the likely cause of this discomfort.

"It might just be a result of your pneumonia.  We'll wait a couple weeks and do another test."  

A couple weeks later, I found myself back in the doctor's office, discussing the results of a second CT Scan.  "The black masses are still there.  They may be in relation to your pneumonia, but it might be beneficial to do a biopsy."

I opted, instead, to wait.  A biopsy would take me out of work for six to eight weeks, as there'd be a chance of infection during the recuperative stage.  This was a break that I would be unable to afford financially.  The doctor reassured me that we could wait eight weeks for another CT Scan, as it would be unlikely that the masses found in my chest scans would grow much further than what they were, which was described to me as roughly the size of a 25 cent piece.  She [my doctor] acted as if this wasn't very big, but holding a quarter up to my chest, this seems like a gargantuan size of anything foreign in one's lung.  Call me f*cking crazy. 

Eight weeks passed by in a flash, but the whole time I had this terrible weight on my mind, haunting my every thought.  I never bothered to share my news with anyone, except my employers, believing that if there was a chance that I'd suddenly be rushed into surgery of some sort, I didn't want it to come as a surprise to them.  I may have mentioned in passing to my mother, too, but without going into any depth or detail.  My family is the sort that would turn on me and give me that whole "I Told You So" speech.  I can hear my sister spouting off her motherly advice of "If you didn't drink so much pop, you wouldn't be in this situation."  As if drinking an extra bottle of diet soda is going to affect my breathing.

Of course, bearing such silence does weigh heavy on a person.  I envy anyone who has a partner or a friend that they can lean on for emotional support.  At the same time, I hate being a burden on people.  I did break down and tell one other friend, if my memory is correct.  He did express concern for my well being, which was nice, but I never shared the bitter details of what was racing through my mind.

I truly believe that possessing a positive outlook and good attitude can thwart any illness 90 percent of the time (or higher).  This is what I did.  On the outside, I continued to be as bright-eyed and smiley-faced as I could, despite the tirade that brewing inside my head.  I knew that I didn't have cancer, and believed as much then as I do now, that if I DID have cancer, that I'd beat it.  No sweat.  Hands down.  I'd look Death straight in the face, wag my finger at him and tell him to "F*ck off!!"   Just like a clown, though, what you see on the outside, doesn't always reflect what's on the inside.

It's been a few weeks since that CT Scan, at which time, I was scheduled for another CT this week.  I contacted the doctor early, about two weeks ago.  I was suffering tremendous pain when I breathed, let alone if I coughed.  My concerns grew ten fold.  My concerns were met in turn with the doctor who upped my appointment.  I went in for another scan and the next day I found myself in her office.

The anomalies or masses or whatever the hell is on my lung, is still there, to a degree, but have shrunk some.  They're suspected to be just scar tissue now, which lends to why I'm experiencing discomfort when I breathe.  Unfortunately, I think this is going to be an ongoing attribute for the remainder of my life.  Just like my knees hurting and the increase of migraines when it gets to cooler temperatures, so will my breathing begin to hurt.  As much as I rock, sometimes it sucks to be me.

So why do I choose to write this entry today?  It's something my sister told me on the weekend.  She told me: Some people have it rough, you should just be happy you have it so good.  I just shook my head.  Knowing what I know, she doesn't have a f*cking clue, what my life is like.

I remember watching some MTV show a few years back, where they'd showcase a celebrity.  The tagline to the show was "You think you know, but you have no idea."  So the next time you share a laugh with someone, take a moment to wonder.  Are they happy?  Or is that just a brilliant disguise.

Opposable Thumbs Up

It's been written that 90 percent of the animals on the endangered species list are birds. This is a fact that I don't find this that difficult to believe.  I also believe that their pending extinctions should not be blamed entirely on mankind's intrusion into their habitats.  Not exclusively. I believe quite the contrary, in fact.  That the birds, themselves, should be blamed for their extinction.  Both on them and evolution.  In fact, the truth be known, human beings play a very minor role in their being endangered.

Throughout the ions of time, upon the extinction of their kind, many species have been able to adapt and conform to their new environments.  For example, the Arctic Fish can live in freezing water, despite being a cold-blooded animal.  While other fish would succumb to the freezing cold, these fish have an antifreeze type protein in their blood which prevents ice crystals to form in their blood.  Mother Nature saw a way to survive and made it happen.  The Sperm Whale and the Bar-Headed Goose are two more examples of adapting to their environment.  Both creatures store a lot more oxygen in their blood than any other animal on the planet.  The whale because it's need to dive to extraordinary depths for food.  The goose because of it's flight pattern over the Himalayan Mountain Range, where there is minimal oxygen at those elevations.   Or even more simply..., the dog and cat community simply said "F*ck it!" and moved in with us.  Now who scoops their shit?  (All a part of the grand scheme, me thinks...)

Ninety percent is a hell of a lot of birds facing elimination.  Honestly, I don't really give a shit.  Like I said, before.  It is their own fault, or the fault of natural selection, rather than whether mankind wished to plot a grand highway through their forest homes.  If they (birds) wished to oppose man's progress, they should lash out at us, and defend their habitat, but they won't, and you know why?  No opposable thumbs.

If the ornithic realm evolved to the ability to form a fist, complete with opposable thumbs, they could then lash back at humanity.  Sucker punch their human interlopers and fighting them back to submission.  Or, failing that, move to the city and get a job, as they could now grasp basic tools, like a hammer or a spatula.

Essentially, I'm saying that the responsibility lies on the avian community and not on humanity.  There's a reason why it's called "natural selection".  It's a case of piss or get off the pot.  Make your own destiny, as was the theme of 1991's "Terminator 2: Judgement Day".

Concerning the above captioned Cassowary (Casuarius casuarius johnsonii) apparently has been lashing out at humankind.  It's been recorded that approximately 75 to 85 percent of recorded attacks have been on humans, a majority of which have been giving chase, mind you, and about 15 percent kicking.  In all cases, the attacks were provoked, instigated by humans infringing on their food sources or nesting area.  Physical attacks usually include pushing, pecking, head-butting and even jumping upon their victims.  Many of the physical interactions have resulted in the deaths of the human.  A trait which this large bird shares only with the Ostrich, worldwide.

So kudos to the Cassowary for having the balls to, not only attack human beings, but kill the motherf*ckers, too!  However, they are still on the endangered list.  Being without fists or arms, for that matter, one can only expect to be so effective in any attack.  It'd be like Alvin Law [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alvin_Law] in a Mixed Martial Arts fight.  He might get off a couple good strong kicks, sure, but in the end he's just going to get his ass kicked.  Very much like the ass kicking the bird kingdom is receiving now.

Does A Bear Shit In The Woods?

Does a bear shit in the woods?  Yes.  I suppose it does.  However, another quandary that has bugged me for awhile, now, concerns zombies.

The premise of zombies has plagued our culture for over half a century, if not longer.  Zombies have certainly been a mainstay in cinema, made most famous by the George A. Romero movies, which include "Night of the Living Dead", "Day of the Dead", and "Dawn of the Dead", just to name a few, as well as inspired other film makers to produce their own spins of the zombie phenomenon.  Like AMC's "The Walking Dead", Brit, Simon Pegg's comedic "Shaun of the Dead", and most recently, the Brad Pitt vehicle, "World War Z", which offered an entirely new spin on the zombie genre.

However, as much as the zombie craze eats at our imaginations and nightmares, one question has eluded me for quite sometime now.  Given my unique outlook on life and the world, when watching such media involving the undead, I find myself distracted by this mystery.  I doubt that there are many others, if any at all, who wonder about the inner mechanics of a zombie.

If any one of us (living souls) were to sit down and gorge ourselves with a hearty meal, it wouldn't be long before we'd need to visit the commode to evacuate our bowels.  So I pose this query, given all the brains and guts that a zombie feeds upon, do they not poop?  With their increased craving for human flesh driving their need to feed, logically, the more they devour, one of two things would be the inevitable outcome.  Either one, they simply shit themselves.  Or two, they would grow well beyond the capacity of what their rotting flesh could contain, resulting in a rupture of the lower torso, causing everything to spill out onto the ground.  I would dare to venture a guess in supposing that the latter would initiate cannibalism among the zombie herd.

That is what logic dictates, although evidence of that has never been profiled in any zombie movies that I am familiar with.  Mostly because zombies tend to die rather quickly with a bullet to the brain or a tire iron skillful thrust through their skull.  And even the ones who do "survive" and assault from the living, the camera very seldom, if ever sticks around to showcase a "day in the un-life of a zombie".

There's no evidence of zombies succumbing to exploded stomachs and intestines.  Yet I doubt that during their aimless trek across the land, that they slyly sneak behind a bush to quickly drop a deuce before continuing their quest.  Therefore, it is most likely that shit themselves. The consistency of what zombie fecal matter would be, but I've consume rare beef in the past and it's not had a good reaction in the bathroom.  So by process of elimination, it's safe to presume that a zombie's defecation would one of an oily or greasy secretion, rather than a chunky mass that would easily run down their pant leg.  While a zombie's appearance is unkempt and dirty, I've never noticed any disturbing (and disgusting) brownish-black shit stains on their wardrobe.  Not that I'm in the habit of checking out the asses of the undead.

So, to answer the question;  Does a bear shit in the woods?  Hell yeah, it does.  But does a zombie bear shit in the woods?  Who the f*ck knows?!?  But I wouldn't want to be around to find out.

Trouser Snake

At first mention of the words, trouser snake, one's imagination goes to a male's genitalia, which in this instance you'd be mistaken.  To what I refer to in this blog, today, is going to be much much worse and far more offensive.  So be warned before reading on, and if you indeed choose to continue reading, you've been forewarned and cannot blame anyone but yourself.  So that being said, I will continue my tawdry tale.

Last weekend was Thanksgiving for Canada.  I don't know why our Thanksgiving Day is more than a month prior to that of the U.S.  Canada probably wanted a long weekend in October, is what many of us have speculated.  I know in the last few years, there was a holiday proposed for February, although I don't think it's recognized in all the provinces.  (I'm talking about YOU, Quebec.  You suck, Quebec!)

So after stuffing myself full at my mother's house, she was gracious enough to send me home with a mountainous amount of left overs.  I don't know how much, per se, but upon warming it up the other night, I'd speculate that it was, at least, a pound in weight.  The left overs contained pretty much everything that had been available at the dinner table, except for the beets, which my mother announced she wouldn't include out of fear it would turn everything purple in colour.

So Thursday night was the night I'd decided to heat up and devour this huge meal.  This was not the easiest of tasks, by any measure, but like a trooper, I forced it all down as I watched wrestling (TNA Impact Wrestling) on Spike TV.  Later that night, I suspect due to the tryptophan in my system, I slept one of the most restful nights in a long long time.  I hadn't been sleeping very well in the nights preceding, so the slumber was welcome.

The next day, work went on as usual.  No issues.  No nothing, other than the usual setbacks and shit.  After work I needed to speed across town to sign some documents, then afterwards, I headed to the Home Depot, in search of a specific tool that I want to purchase for my brother-in-law for Christmas.  While looking around, I suddenly found myself needing to visit the washroom.  I don't normally like to use public facilities, as they are usually pretty f*cking gross, but this being a newer Home Depot location and in a decent part of town, I didn't think the washroom would be in too terrible of disarray, and quickly hobbled in it's direction.  Plus, judging from the impending doom, whether or not the bathroom was a disaster, I had one locked in the chamber and the safety switch was slipping.

Sadly, someone was in the handicapped stall, the spot I usually like to occupy as it has lots of leg room.  I don't necessarily need to stretch out as I "drop the kids off at the pool", but it's like a life jacket on a boat.  It's nice to have, just in case.  So I squeezed myself into the other available stall and unleashed the fury.

Actually it wasn't so furious, thank god!  Nothing is worse than having an atrocious bowel movement and having to clean up the mess with that sandpaper they call toilet paper.  Am I right, people?  It's like wiping with a cheese grater.  It might do the trick, but it doesn't feel good at all, nor are you left in a very happy place afterward.  But thankfully, this was not one of those horrific occasions.  Nope!  This one slipped out quite nicely.  Like a basketball through a hoop with nothing but net.  Phoof!!!

I took care of the aftermath and turned to flush when I noticed the gargantuan specimen looking back up at me from the porcelain bowl.  I'm not bragging, nor is this anything to be proud of, but I am a little impressed at the slick torpedo that was laid to rest in the tiny toilet stall at the Home Depot.  By my estimation, it had to be between 14 to 16 inches in length, and it wasn't coiled.  It was straight as the crow flies, nestled comfortably at the bottom of the bowl.  I was almost tempted to take a picture of it with my phone, but quickly decided against it as I don't know of anyone who would be as impressed with this feat as I was (and am).

I flushed and forever lost the evidence of my visit to the Home Depot, but the memory is still in my head.  I remember leaving the confines of the tiny bathroom thinking, "That was one helluva trouser snake."  It was then that I knew I'd have to share this with the world, via my blog, Brain Matter!

Death Ride

They say that if you die in your dream, you die in real life.  I don't know who "they" are, but they sure as f*ck don't know shit!  I've died many many times in my sleep and have woken up each and every single time.

There was a point when I was younger that I died a different way in every dream I had over the course of about a week.  One involved riding a rickety old roller coaster that jumped a high sharp turn.  I had one where I'd jumped on a grenade.  There was one that involved another amusement park ride, where the arms spun round-and-round, as well as up and down, the little pod at the end, of which I was riding, went up and kept going up into a cascading arch, before plummeting into a nearby parking lot.  There were a couple of dreams where I was trapped in a vehicle sinking underwater.  Those ones I've never been very fond of, having a healthy respect for the water.

Nope!  I'd say who ever the scholastic "they" are, they don't know shit about dreams.  Or if their synopsis is correct, then I'm an exception to the rule, perhaps.  Whatever the case, I've died a great many times and I've awoken every time.  The reason I'm addressing this, here, is I had another one just the other night.  Only this one was exceptionally strange.  In all preceding death-related dreams.  My death would come in the natural pace that it would.  The roller coaster car making contact with the ground, then I'd calmly wake up.  The grenade explodes under my torso and after a brief pause in my head, I'd open my eyes and be safely within the four walls of my bedroom.  As for the sinking vehicles, I was surprisingly calm before waking up safe and dry.  This dream the other night, though...  Troubling.

I'm unable to remember the events leading up to my tragic end, the other night.  I can only recall driving my pick-up to a location just outside a city that I've never been to before.  After sometime at this place, I was dispatched to drive back into the city to visit another locale, only they people gave me a car to drive back.  It was a nice car, if I remember correctly.  A sleek black sedan with bright LED and Xenon lights on the front that were bluish in colour.  It may have been a BMW, but that's not an important factor in this story.

I set out on my mission, the night quickly approaching and the world growing more and more dark.  I headed north, I think, on towards the amber glow of the nearby metropolis.  The roads that took me there weren't paved, thick with gravel that made driving a little more challenging in the sedan that it had been in my truck.  I was close, though, and soon found myself gliding along smooth concrete surfaces.  This mysterious place definitely was not in Saskatchewan, as I've never traveled such gloriously smooth highways anywhere in  my home province of Saskatchewan.

The GPS, that had been programmed by my hosts, directed me to cross an overpass that dissected a train yard.  There was no traffic on the roads so I never bothered to slow down at the flashing amber light.  I signaled left and sped up the brightly lit roadway that lead straight into the darkened sky.  The speedometer needle continued to climb up the dial, even after I found my wheels had left the safety of the roadway.  It became all to apparent that the overpass was still under construction, after I glanced to my left and realized there was nothing there, but a few straggling re-bar.  My attention returned to the view in front of me as the nose of the car began to bow towards the ground.  I braced for impact, like that was going to help reduce the pain for falling a couple hundred feet.

It never happened in slow motion, although the events that followed did seem to move at a slower pace.  I remember making out the grey stones that made up much of the ground in this train yard.  I remember the front of this luxury sedan folding up like a cheap suit, the moment it made contact with the ground.  I remember being jarred in my seat and a sharp pain zipping up the right side of my spine, like a shock of electricity.  Then I remember quiet.  Absolute silence, interrupted a few seconds later by the sounds of steam and the car settling into it's new resting place.

I sat quietly for a few minutes, trying to comprehend just what the f*ck happened.  Conjuring up the memories of what lead me to this moment in time.  I hadn't seen any traffic signs indicating that the road was closed due to construction.  I couldn't move.  I was pinned behind the wheel of the car.  Light from the flickering GPS made shadows dance across my face and the cabin of the car.  I reached up and turned the key off, despite the engine being quite dead.

A few more moments passed, but they seemed like hours.  I now found myself outside the car.  Standing across from the bright headlamps that were still operational, I assessed the damage.  I looked up to see a gathering of people looking over the edge of the defunct overpass.  To my right, I saw rescuers making their way down the embankment, with flashlights in hand.  I tried to approach them, but was unable to move.  I was confused, but more so once the people made it to the car.  They began trying to open the driver door, all the while reaching in and screaming at me.  "SIR!  SIR!  CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

They were obviously calling out to me, but their attention was directed inside the car.  In fact nobody bothered to look my way at all.  I called out to them, but no one responded to my pleas.  Finally I was able to make my way to the front of the smoldering car and take note of myself unconscious behind the wheel and the rescuers checking my vital signs.  "It's too late..." I overheard one of them mutter to another.

I continued to stand there watching, confused by what I was witnessing unfold, but completely calm.  Aside from their incessant chatter, I could clearly hear my own breaths.  Deep inhales followed by heavy sighs.  I felt at peace.  One thought did cross my mind that didn't involve the happenings unfolding before me.  "What's going to become of my sweet little boy [cat], Monkey?"  On that single thought, I heard the alarm on my cell phone going off.  I turned away from the car and found myself awake and hitting snooze.

Once more, after being killed in my dreams, I awoke to live out my dream life.  Working a job that doesn't appreciate me and living with my sweet cat, Monkey, who does appreciate me.

It Matters

"That's not fair!" he said accusingly.  He was in utter disbelief that his request was being denied.  "You're being racist!!"

Yesterday, after work, I stopped by my bank to pay a portion of what's currently owed on my credit card.  Month-by-month, I've been paying what I can to whittle it down to a more reasonable amount.  For a change, I was in and out of the bank in a speedy fashion.  Only on this occasion, I was accosted by an individual just outside the doors of the mall.

He was a tall kid with a very dark skin tone.  I'd noticed him on my way into the bank, as he stood joking with his friend who was inhaling a cigarette deeply.  The sight of anyone smoking a cigarette, generally disgusts me.  The smell, itself, makes me ill, and the practice itself, boggles my mind.  I can't say for sure if I made a face as I passed by.  I may have, but it's difficult to conclude that I did for sure, but it may have lead to what happened after.

As I was leaving the bank and heading to my truck, this tall dark lanky fellow ran up and stopped me just as I was going to cross the road to where I was parked. "Hey man!" he said with a thick accent.  I stopped and looked at him.  "Give me some money!"

Taken aback, I did a double-take out of confusion.  "Excuse me?"

"Give me some money!" he repeated, holding out his open hand.

"What do you mean, 'give you some money'..?" I asked.

"Give.  Me.  Some.  MONEY!" he said, again.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter who I am... Give-"

"EXACTLY!!!" I said, cutting him off mid sentence, "It doesn't matter who you are, so get the f*ck outta my face, you piece of shit!"  I turned and attempted to walk past him.

"Piece of shit?!?" he responded.  He couldn't believe that he'd just been spoken to in this manner.  "Piece of shit?!?  Who are you to speak to ME that way?"

"Who the f*ck are YOU to demand I give you money.  I don't know who the f*ck you are!  You're just some lazy piece of shit trying to steal money from me!!"  I said, with some induced heat behind my words.

"That's not fair!" he said accusingly.  He was in utter disbelief that his request was being denied.  "You're being racist!!" 

I couldn't believe my ears.  I was being accused of being a racist.  Me, the person who hates everyone equally, being called a racist.

"I'm a racist?!?"  I exclaimed.  "You're some foreigner who's come here from wherever the f*ck, and instead of getting a job and earning your own money, you're standing here outside the mall, demanding that I give you money, and I'm being racist...  Go f*ck yourself!!!"

I then pushed past him and never looked back.  I don't know what occurred following this experience, but who cares.  I hope no one else fell for his bullied demands and authorities got involved.

I work very hard for what I have, which isn't a lot, but to have some punk-ass bitch think he's going to bully me, of all people, into handing over my money.  That's a f*ckin' slap in the face!

Living the Dream

I stood quietly, overwhelmed in the moment.  Staring across the sea of magazine stands and book shelves at the terminal that would soon determine my fate.  This was a motion that I'd repeated many many times beforehand, but this time it felt different.  Like anything was possible.  People passed me by, never once paying any attention.  They didn't care and why should they?

The day started as any other work day would.  A groggy stammered start to a shortened work week.  The long weekend had just come to an end, but my long weekend was just too short.  I'd spent most of my Saturday at the Veterinarian College, where I took my sick cat in for some much needed tests.  So despite having the extra day off, I still felt completely spent.

Feeling much better after his stressful ordeal, my cat came to see me off, as he often does in the mornings.  It makes me feel better seeing his fuzzy face lurking out the front window as I pull out of the driveway.  This morning he was extra attentive, almost as if he were trying to talk me out of leaving.  "Believe me," I said to him, "If I could afford not to work anymore, I'd gladly spend my days at home with you.  Maybe I'll check my lottery ticket on the way home.  You never know...."

The thought never entered my mind again until I overheard someone talking about the lottery at work.  "Someone in the city, here, won the $14 million." he said.  After that, it was all I could think about.  Usually, when something like this occurs, where it's known that a local resident has won a substantial win fall, I pay no mind.  Reality, of course, sets in and I know in my bones that I never won the jackpot, and the proof is in the pudding, as I still work a nine-to-five job, rather than gallivanting across the globe.  However, this day felt different.

In the past, I've mentioned something I refer to as "Jeffy's Law".  It's similar to Murphy's Law, only Jeffy's Law is: Anything of equal of greater value will happen to me.  For instance, I received a $900 tax return many many years ago, then had my car breakdown to the tune of a $1200 repair.  For every good, something much worse will occur.  So naturally, I thought given all the bad shit I've had to endure this year, that perhaps something good would come of it.

So all day long, I thought about the financial freedoms that might come upon me.  What I'd do with this...  What I'd do about that....  I thought about the television program that I'd develop and sell to TLC.  (I figured if they gave a show to that idiot Honey Boo Boo, whoever the f*ck that is, that they'd have to give me a show.  My show is pure genius!!)

So all the thoughts and warm regards of my day culminated to that one moment.  The fleeting few seconds that found me standing in the drug store, looking across the field of magazines and hard cover books, to the lottery number verifier terminal.  In a few moments I'd find out if I was a winner or not...

I held my breath as I placed the unfolded ticket under the scanner.  Then it happened.  BEEP!!

Wednesday morning began like any other workday.  I was groggy and stammering to put my work shoes on.  My cat, saw me off and I waved as I drove away.  Needless to say, I didn't win f*ck all.  Not even a free play.  I'm the same loser I was before, working a nine-to-five job and livin' the dream!

Fan Fest

Fan sites.  What the hell?  I can understand people gathering to discuss the latest gossip for their favourite television show.  Music groups, I understand, except maybe for that Justin Bieber kid, unless it's a full on discussion of how he ought to have his ass kicked.  Even video games, I get, to a certain point.  Halo fans and gamers of all sorts of other games, meeting online to discuss strategies and maybe even linking up for some online competition later on down the road.  One fan site I've recently crossed paths with, doesn't make sense in the slightest.

I admit to having a problem.., an addiction, if you'd prefer, with Facebook.  In fact, once I complete this blog, I'll be sharing it on Facebook.  Not only that, but I'm going to specifically post it on the very Facebook Fan Page that I hope to address here.

One of my biggest weaknesses on Facebook is the Words With Friends game.  A re-invented Scrabble game, that up to this point, I've lost more games than I've won.  Despite these horrific losses, I do enjoy the game.  That is until recently, when my game has stopped loading.  I've let it go, on a separate window, attempting to load for well over an hour, on a recent visit to the internet.  The f*cker simply will not load.  This is when I discovered a Words With Friends Fansite within Facebook.  I thought that, most certainly, there might be others who have experienced the same or similar problems, so I posted a comment requesting suggestions on how this problem might be fixed.

No sooner had I posted my request than the slanderous replies start pouring in.  Comments which included calling me a "f*cking tw*t" (the latter word was spelled with an A, not an I...) and telling me to stop whining about trivial bullshit.  That they're not affiliated with Zynga Games, the designing company responsible for the game's creation.  Zynga Games was also responsible for FarmVille and a whole host of other games before going bankrupt in 2012.

For a community that strives for inclusion of fellow fans of the game, they sure have an odd way of welcoming in new fans of the very same game.  Isn't the whole premise of a community to help and assist one another towards a common goal?  I looked up the word "community" on www.dictionary.reference.com, and in so many words it defines the word as: A social, religious, occupational or any other group sharing common characteristics or interests and perceived or perceives itself as distinct in some respect from the larger society within which it exists.  So instead of offering up advice to fellow fans of the very game they are fans of, they instead rally together to offend newcomers seeking their expertise and advice.

The Words With Friends Fan Site is one thing for sure.  A coalition of assholes.  Not a single person of the six that I received feedback from, offered any sort of valid advice.  One fellow, the most civil of the bunch, suggested that the game was refusing to work for me because of my lack of giving to those less fortunate.  Going so far as to suggest that my game's recent dysfunction was due to my lack of charitable work.  Apparently hippies now play word games.  He went on to suggest I delete my account and start over.  This seems a little extreme, considering this shit is supposed to work 24/7, but whatever the hell.  Perhaps this IS fate's way of stepping in and telling me to get my priorities together.  

I do have some stormy weather on the horizon.  This I'm most certain of.  Getting upset over a Scrabble rip-off, should be the least of my problems. 

Kevin Is An Idiot!!

Holy f*ck, did I ever come close to dying yesterday.  I am in no way, exaggerating.    I could've died, or at the very least, been injured quite seriously.  I still shudder to think that if I'd been (literally) two seconds earlier, my Thursday would've ended with a tremendous crash and a trip to the hospital...

I drive a fork lift for a living for a local farm implement manufacturer.  I've been there for a little over a year now, most of which I've spent covering for people who were out on disability or vacation or whatever.  A few months ago, those transient ways came to an end, when I was moved into the warehouse, where I'm now responsible for the loading and (mostly) unloading of tractor trailers full of stock and supplies.  This is something that I've done for many years prior to coming to this company, and it's something I've always done well and with very little incident.

Yesterday began much like most.  Trucks would arrive and I'd quickly unload them, usually running the large over-sized items, shipped to us by a variety of suppliers, out the door and onto the concrete pad or across the road.  Wherever we can find room, a commodity we are quickly running out of.

In addition to those trucks, we also have a warehouse nearby, which houses most of the stock for manufacturing.  We have trailers upon trailers arriving daily from the other warehouse, stocked to the teeth with replenishments for our shelves.  On occasion we have overstocks which require to be sent back on the emptied trailer.  This is a common practice, though not necessary everyday.  Yesterday, happened to be one of those days, where shit needed to be sent back.

I raced to unload this truck yesterday afternoon, as there was a violent storm occurring outside, and there was a waterfall between the trailer and the building, thus every time I entered the trailer and made my exit with heavy pallets on my forks, I'd be drenched by the cascading water.  I was instructed by, not one, not two, but three different people, to place some nearby stock back onto the truck to be sent to the other warehouse.  The last pallet of stock came off the truck just as a crash of thunder echoed overhead.  It scared the bejesus outta me.  The stock at hand, had to be delivered around the corner to the delivery lanes, where another forklift driver is responsible for delivering said stock to the various locations around the east and west plants.  I was gone for maybe a minute.  No more than two, as the route was congested with all sorts of machines designed for the delivery of manufactured parts and carts.  It's much too complicated of subject matter to delve into at this time.  Rest assured, there was heavy traffic.

As I rounded the corner, back to the loading bays, I was preparing to begin my loading of the now emptied trailer.  Lone and behold, if the ramp wasn't already returned to it's upright position and the overhead door closed.  "What the f*ck?!?" I wondered aloud.  So I got off my lift, opened the overhead door once more and lowered the ramp that bridges the gap between the building and the trailers.  I got back onto my lift and began to inch forward.  It was just as my front wheels got to the edge of the plate, the trailer pulled away from the building and the ramp dropped violently, scaring the shit out of me in the process.  "HOLY F*CK!!!" I cried out, as Kevin, the warehouse supervisor was returning from his trip outside.

I'd noticed Kevin walking away from the overhead door as I'd come around the corner moments earlier.  It wasn't difficult to spot him, as he was wearing a brightly coloured orange raincoat.  "Why is this door open again?" He asked quite sternly.

"Why was it closed, is a better question!!"  I replied, "I could've been killed."

"When you're done emptying the trailer, you have to close the door and send C___ on his way." Kevin scolded.

"Which is what I would've done, had I been finished.  But I wasn't!  I have all this shit that they wanted me to put back on the truck to send back..!!" I replied.

"Well," he began, "I came over here and you weren't around and I walked into the trailer and came back and closed up everything.  You were gone for too long!!!"  He was acting like this was my fault, which was bullshit, and I told him so.

"Bullshit!!!  I was gone for maybe a minute.  I had to take the stuff to the delivery lanes.  That does NOT take more than a minute."

He just stood there, looking at me with that stupid f*cking look in his head, a kind of nervous smile, and shrugged his shoulders.

"You could've killed me.  I could've died." I told him from my forklift, which towered over him.

"Awe, you wouldn't have died," he guffawed and waving his hand.

For anyone who is unfamiliar with how the loading bay is designed on a building, it is essentially a descending ramp which tractor trailers are backed into and which should meet up with a large opening in the side of the building.  The distance from the floor of the building to the bottom of the ramp is generally between 3 to 5 feet.  To fall a distance of three to five feet, might result in some minor bruising or worse yet, broken bones.  To fall that distance behind the wheel of a forklift, a machine that weighs, in some instances, twice that of a regular motor vehicle, is going to hurt a f*ck of a lot more than falling just by one's self.

"That's horse shit!!!" I said, "I'm serious, you could've killed me."

Seeing that I wasn't going to laugh it off like he was attempting to, he just stormed off.

What a f*cking idiot!!!  Instead of clarifying with those of us who actually know what the f*ck is going on, he took the initiative to butt his nose in where it didn't f*cking belong.

Today, was uneventful.  Kevin stayed out of the warehouse for most of the day, and when he did happen by, he'd make jokes, trying to get back on my good side.  Too little, too late, Kev.  Your stupidity and ignorance almost got me injured or worse.  You can make all the jokes in the world, it's not going to change my mind on the fact that YOU, Kevin, are an idiot!!

Not Like The Old Days

I was watching TV earlier when a special interest commercial came up.  A public announcement from Pauley Perrette, co-star of CBS's NCIS.  She, in the advertisement, stands very stoic and calmly recites the words, "If you receive a text message while driving, pull over to the side of the road, before looking to see what it says.  No text is worth losing your life over or killing someone else."  The ad concludes with tagline,CBS Cares.

I began to laugh.

I, in no way, disagree with this practice or the need to constantly remind people that they need to do this.  Reading your text messages while waiting for a red light to change to green, doesn't count either.  You motherf*ckers need to get over to the side and put your shit in park or apply the e-brake.

This is not why I laughed.

I laughed because I suddenly thought of valid reasons as to why it'd be necessary to read a text while driving.  The examples are as follows: 

1. "LOOK OUT!!!"
2. "THEY'RE RIGHT BEHIND YOU!!!"
3. "DON'T STOP THE CAR OR THEY'LL F*CKING KILL YOU!!!"

These are just a sample of messages I'd prefer to know about before I wound up a crimson stain on the asphalt.  Call me old-fashioned, which is ironic being that text messaging wasn't available in the olden days.  People back then had to be surprised when a load of logs fell from a tractor trailer squashing them in their cars or be bludgeoned to death by a hooded maniac with a hook for a hand.

Unbearable

For the life of me, I can't understand why people enjoy camping.  My father loved it and I remember every summer vacation, being lead out to some remote lake, to live out of the trunk of our car and sleep under the stars in a leaky tent.  "Back to the basics." he'd say with a deep inhale of fresh air.  Early to bed, as there's very little to do at night, but stare into the flickering of the campfire and very early to rise as the early dawn brought about the screeching birds, and that was if we were lucky enough to not be rained on during the night.

To this day, I find it extremely difficult to recall a single time that our camping excursions never resulted in some kind of disastrous outcome.  Whether it be a misty rain bleeding through the sheer material of our tent, often resulting in the saturation of our sleeping bags; or the least of our troubles, the rocky terrain and stubble protruding through the tent floor and into our backs.  It wasn't until later that air mattresses were introduced into the camping experience.  The mattresses provided a more comfortable sleep, but never saved us from the flooding.

The tenting experience can be avoided with the advent of camper trailers, which if I were foolish enough to go camping, is the only way you'd ever find me out in the wilderness.  Bringing the creature comforts of home, out to the wild yonder.  Although this practice defeats the whole "getting back to the basics" that my late father enjoyed, it sure beats having to shit in the woods.  Cooking over an open fire is replaced with a propane cooking stove.  The shitty polystyrene cooler that always flaked off at the corner, littering the camp site with tiny balls of foam plastic, now replaced with a mini fridge secured safely under the faux oak cupboard in the RV.  The sole entertainment of watching the orange glow of logs slowly crumbling under the extreme heat of the campfire is now replaced by a mini plasma TV and DVD player, complete with surround sound.  Best of all though, is sleeping on (more) comfortable foam bedding, with real blankets and comforters, protected from the elements by a hardened shell of aluminum and fiberglass.

I remember as a kid, many times arriving at our destination well after the sun had gone down then being forced to listen to the barrage of cursing from my father as he fought with the problems of hammering tents pegs into the rocky ground.  Often times, the ground was too hard and the cheap ass metal spikes would bend violently as he'd attempt to hammer them into the ground.  Thinking back, I recall searching through the surrounding foliage for the hammer my dad was using.  Upon striking the hand holding the peg in place, the hammer would be flung into the darkness followed by expertly-voiced curses.  One of my fondest memories of my father, whether it be camping or just working around the yard, if he lost his cool, the string of curse words could link together was nothing short of poetry to my ears.  While I can intertwine a lovely collection of curses, I can only aspire to one day equal the skill level of my late father's degree of swearology.

Whatever the mode of the camping experience, people are inexplicably drawn to the wilderness.  Mine was vicarious through my father's desire.  From what I've been able to compile from Google, is a combination of the feeling of accomplishment; man over the wild; the sense of community as they visit with other camping enthusiasts.  Others feel it gives them an opportunity to reflect on their lives; and even bring themselves closer to God.  Personally, I don't understand what that aspect has to do with sleeping under the stars.  Homeless people do that year round and I'd imagine they feel more spited by God, than spiritually closer to "him".  None of the remarks that I was able to find, mentioned that it brought people closer to nature.  This poses a problem for me.

Friday afternoon, I was privy to a conversation people were engaging in the lunchroom at work.  There was talk of an upcoming camping trip by one of the folks, which soon moved to past encounters with bears.  Camping encroaches on the bear's territory.  Moose, elk, deer, wolves and bears are among the many creatures one may encounter out in the wild.  Every provincial and national park post instructions on how to enjoy the nature walks and avoid being attacked by the indigenous wildlife.  That being said, the fact that people wish harm to the bears that may wander into the camp sites, bothers me.

In the conversation, it was mentioned that if the same bear wanders into a populated camp site more than twice, it is immediately terminated as a nuisance.  Imagine that!  Killed for simply being a bear living in a forest.  The people around me couldn't understand my disdain for this practice, replying that the bear had no right to be in the camp sites. I shook my head with disbelief.  "That's like if someone came into my house and the police coming and taking ME away.  If I return to my house twice more, the police then take me out and shoot me."  I said.  

Man put these camp sites in the forest homes of bears and alike.  Not the other way around.  The bears didn't suddenly one day decide they needed to visit the city more often.  It's our inherent need to return to the wild, stupid as that is.  It's like swimming in shark infested waters for the adventure and excitement, then getting upset when we lose a f*cking leg.  People need to know the risks before they enter into these situations and accept them.  Realize that they're entering a dangerous environment.  That if they don't exercise some care and caution, they might be mauled by a f*ckin' bear.  It's a reasonable expectation.  Don't fault the bear for your own foolishness and stupidity.

Sussudio

As a young fella in school, I recall a test that our class was about to have.  Our young feeble minds strained to remember facts that, as an adult, flows freely from our brows.  A form of remembering facts that was taught to us by our teachers was to take the first letters of those that we were trying to recall and form a familiar word with them.  That way, when we were posed with a particular question, we'd remember a single word and go on from there.  Easy as pumpkin pie. (Although I have no idea how pumpkin pie is made, so I have doubts on the ease of it's construction.)

On one particular exam, myself and some friends had conglomerated beforehand, a rarity in itself, to go over our notes and form some kind of format to tackle what we believed would be a tough test of the things we'd been taught.  One of the questions involved naming the Great Lakes.  Our young minds had trouble remembering all of them, and before you laugh at this premise, I doubt there are many existing adults who can recall all of them either.  I watch TV.  I know there's a LOT of stupid people in the world today.

Applying the method of using the first letters of each lake, we came up with the word S.H.M.E.O.  While SHMEO isn't an actual word in the English language, it was the only word that the three or four of us could surmise with the letters presented before us.  SHMEO was easy to recall, as it made us all chuckle and feel good, just like the word Sussudio makes Phil Collins feel good.

In the decades since that big exam which, by-the-way we all did very well on, every time I've ever seen a picture of the Great Lakes or heard them in reference, I've thought of the word SHMEO and it has brought a smile to my face, every consecutive time.

This morning I was watching the show Repo Games, while I was getting dressed.  One of the questions posed to a contestant was: H.O.M.E.S. is a word taught to students as a reference to remembering the names of the Great Lakes. Huron, Ontario, Michigan and Erie are the first four, what is the fifth?"   As dumb as the contestants are on this show (three sisters believed Atlanta was a state, not a city), they easily answered "Superior".  It was a question that was a little too easy, if you ask me, but then again, as stated before, the show rarely showcases road scholars.

I sat there on the edge of my bed, socks in hand realizing that HOMES was a far better and easier word to recall than SHMEO, so I question who the "road scholar" in this scenario is.  The younger me did pass that exam, SHMEO successfully serving it's purpose and in the end, the word has given me a reason to smile over the past couple decades.

There's No Place Like Home

My dad told me a joke when I was young.  He asked "Why do you think it's so windy in Saskatchewan?"  I thought for a moment and shrugged my shoulders.  "Because Manitoba blows and Alberta sucks!"  He smiled then we both shared a chuckle.  I always thought it to be a play on words, as most residents of whatever city or province, always boasts there home territory to be superior to anywhere else.  It wasn't until I was older and able to visit these other provinces, where I was able to learn that this simple joke was based more in reality than jest.

I've been to Manitoba only a hand full of times.  It was winter every time and it was cold as f*ck.  The folks were friendly, as their license plate caption implies, but god damn it was cold.  It makes sense why the movie "White Out" filmed in Manitoba, doubling it for Antarctica.  Friendliness aside, though, there was entirely too many french folks for my liking too.  I'm not saying that all French folks are bad.  I have a few friends who are of the French persuasion, and their alright.  But in my past I've roomed with a French bloke and he was quite a bastard, hence my dislike for the people.  How does that old saying go?  It only takes one rotten apple to spoil the bunch?

Alberta, on the other hand...  Oy!  Where do I start?  I had the "pleasure" (and I use that term loosely) of living in Edmonton for about six months of my younger life, and I regretted ever f*cking moment of that time. I lived in squalor, making next to no money, then had the misfortune of rooming with some really skeevy thieving motherf*ckers, which made the experience all the more worse.  That was a number of years ago, but fast forward to more recent events and the province hasn't improved much at all.  People are (seemingly) angry all over.  I met a couple of decent and friendly folks, but two "good apples can't save a basket of rotten ones", I'm afraid.

As some may know I went to the wedding of two dear friends in British Columbia, a province I might add was a real pleasure to visit.  Everyone was so freakin' nice there.  If I had to choose any other province to live in, I'd seriously consider this one.  Aside from the excessively high price of gasoline and the "scary-as-f*ck" taxi cab drivers, my experience in this place was exceptional.

My original plan was to fly out to Kelowna, British Columbia, then rent myself a sporty car, like a Camaro or Dodge Challenger, once I'd gotten there.  However, I thought I'd take some time off from work and drive myself out, stopping at a couple of touristy locations along the way.  My first stop was going to be in Drumheller, Alberta, the proclaimed Dinosaur Capital of the World, on account that such a variety of dinosaur bones were discovered in it's Red River beds in the early part of the 20th century.  I got away from my home late on Wednesday, May 22nd and never got into Drumheller until about 5pm, just in time to discover that the tourist attraction in town was closing.  "What the f*ck kind of tourist attraction, closes at 5 o'clock in the afternoon?" I thought rudely to myself.

The next day I was treated poorly at the Tyrell Museum just outside Drumheller.  I was mistreated and verbally assaulted at a Tim Horton's in Calgary.  A woman flipped me the bird in Canmore, because I failed to wait forever for her to waddle her fat 400lb ass across the sidewalk.  (That may have been my fault, but show some f*cking class.)  I never was really shown any kindness in Alberta, except for the lady at the Fossil Gift Shop in Drumheller, who stayed open later for me to buy some stuff for my nephews.  (She got a kick out of my story about the guy at my work who doesn't believe dinosaurs ever existed, but that unicorns did.)  Some gay, or at least I think he was gay, kid at McDonald's who was just too happy to serve me, and a woman working at the Esso in Canmore.  Everyone else, to my recollection, were kind o' douchie.

My stay in Kelowna rocked.  The gas, I saw at one place, was as high as $1.53 per Liter, which blows, but I never filled up there.  Everyone was super-nice.  As I said, I'd live in British Columbia, if I had to live anywhere else in Canada, rather than Saskatchewan.

Sunday was the day I was to head back.  I'd researched online and found a decent hotel to stay in Calgary.  The plan was to drive to Calgary, stay the night, go to the zoo on Monday, then drive to Drumheller to use my free pass, then home.  The TraveLodge in Calgary must've cleaned one room for the internet site, because the outside of the hotel looked shabby and I barely stepped into the lobby as the stink drove me back out to the parking lot.  I checked the weather forecast for Monday, which called for thunder and lightning showers, and I said "F*ck it!", drove to Drumheller and used my free pass to the Royal Tyrell Dinosaur Museum, which I managed to check out in about an hour, and was unimpressed.  I was always lead to believe that dinosaurs were SO FREAKIN' HUGE, but this didn't seem to be the case with the ones on display in this museum.  The dinosaurs skeletons I saw there, weren't much bigger than maybe an elephant or hippo.  The Tyrannosaurus Rex they had on display, looked like a punk-ass bitch.  Big teeth, sure, but a bitch nonetheless.

I was so happy when I was able to get a hold of my mother, instructing her to bring my cat, Monkey, back to my house, as I was heading home at that moment.  Five hours later, I was stepping into my wonderful house and hugging my beautiful little boy, Monkey.  There's no place like home, indeed.

Tattered Dreams

People say that one should avoid ever meeting their idols, for your perceived idea of who they are and what kind of a person they are, often differs greatly from reality.

I would hardly consider the town of Drumheller, Alberta, Canada as my "idol", nor even in the Top Ten of places to ever visit in my life.  However, the idea of learning shit, especially about dinosaurs, brings out the young boy in me.

I've driven, or ridden rather, through Drumheller, Alberta, two or three times in my life.  I've always wanted to stop and explore, but my travel companions never shared my enthusiasm on the matter.  So when the opportunity came for me to travel through the town once again, flying solo this time, on my way to British Columbia for a friends wedding, I jumped at the chance to stop in the town that had always eluded me before.

Drumheller is said to be one of the largest beds of dinosaur fossils in the world.  A reputation that is not lost on this town.  Dinosaurs can be seen depicting all sorts of colour schemes and elaborate poses on almost every street corner.  Wild colours that would hardly make these ancient creatures blend into the jungle background that once existed in this territory.  The woman at the gift shop was very informative when I was perusing her inventory of authentic fossils and other trinkets.  "This whole area," she told me, "Was once underwater and this creature..."

She pointed to a large fossilized head, approximately 4 feet by about 2 feet in size, perched atop a grand display, "Swam in that body of water.  They grew to be about 60 feet in length, but this skull belonged to an adolescent."  Intrigued by her spiel, I purchased a fossilized tooth that stood prominently out of the stone it was rested in, which I will display prominently upon my mantle when I return home.

In all honesty, I didn't know what to expect from Drumheller.  I knew people must've lived here, but I never realized just how bustling the town actually is.  They have all sorts of shit in this town, including a large furniture franchise (The Brick), a Canadian Tire and even a large lumber yard.  I was pleasantly shocked.  On the surface, Drumheller seems like a sweet little town.  What lies underneath is a completely different story.

Nothing sinister, mind you, just swindling.  Because Drumheller is such a destination spot for tourism, I feel that some of the local merchants may be taking liberties with the economy.  I visited four (4) different restaurants before I was able to locate one whose prices weren't a blatant gouge on the visiting tourists.  The first , was a restaurant called Sublime.  Bells should have sounded off in my head when, at dinner time, nobody was in the restaurant.  Then I saw the menu and alarms really did go off in my head.  I've had the privilege of dining in a few fancy restaurants where the prices were quite high, but you paid for the experience and the ambiance, as well as the well-crafted food.  Sublime was a hollowed out old house, the walls clad in baby puke green and black and was poorly lit, despite the sun shining through the dusty windows.  I quickly made up an excuse and made my exit.  Pork chops were priced at $40.  No f*cking thank you.

Next was Dairy Queen.  I figured I'd opt for a fast food chain.  Decent food for a reasonable price.  NOPE!!  I questioned the woman behind the counter on why the prices were SO outrageous.  "Eight dollars for a cheeseburger?  Add four bucks if I want fries and a drink?  Are you kidding?"  She was Asian, fresh off the boat, I suspect as she had no f*cking clue what I'd just said.  "Eat in or take out?" she repeated.

The owner or manager or whatever the f*ck he was, looked up from his newspaper and called out from his table in the empty dining room.  I don't know what he said.  It was broken English, interrupted by the loud freezer behind the counter.  "I'm from Saskatchewan and the prices aren't THIS expensive.  Is this a Drumheller thing?  Hike up the prices for the tourists?"

"We get from Hea- Office.  You no like.  You go back to Saskatchee-ahn."  I remarked that their pricing was horse shit and once more, made my way out the door.  The restaurant next door, was empty.  I drove down the street and noticed restaurant after restaurant had empty parking lots.  Finally, I came upon the McDonald's and the parking lot was full.  I reluctantly went inside and the place was bustling with a constant hum of conversation from the dining room.  Pricing was the same as it was at home, so it made sense why Rotten Ronnie's was so popular.

Grabbed my shit and headed back to my hotel, where I came upon a "lovely" fella in the parking lot who accused me of trying to hit his truck with the door of mine.  "Sorry." I said, moving out of the way, "I'll move to the other side."

"WHAT did you say?!?" he asked angrily.  "Did you call it a piece of shit?"

"No," I said, concerned with the sudden escalation, "I was just ---"

"It may be a piece of shit, but at least it's paid for!  I hate you chicken shit bastards who utter shit under your breath but don't have the balls to back it up!!"

I was confused and I'm sure it showed on my face.  "SIR!!!  I merely said I'd get out of your wa---"

He didn't want to hear any of it.  Got in his truck and f*cked off.  Now I'm paranoid that my truck is going to get keyed by this angry f*ck, as it's parked way on the other side from where my room is located.

I'm going to get a decent night's sleep (I hope) and get the f*ck outta this place early.  I'm going to stop at the Tyrrel Dinosaur Museum on my way out of this shit-hole town, before heading on to Calgary.  I hope shit improves once I arrive there.  As far as Drumheller is concerned, the town will from this day forth, leave a sour and bitter taste in my mouth.  It would've been better had I bi-passed this f*cking town all together.

I Could Give A

I could give a rat's ass!!!

Actually, I couldn't a rat's ass.  I don't have access to a rat.  Nor do I even know where to access a rat.  I suppose I could visit one of the many local pet stores and acquire a rat.  I doubt they'd cost very much.  Then I could give a rat's ass.

On the second hand, though, I'd be stuck with a rat with no ass and I don't know what sort of medical problems that would produce.  I can only imagine that a rat without an ass is going to bloat up, filling more and more with rat turds, on account of not having a method of vacating it's bowels.  The poor little bugger would eventually explode, spreading rat feces all over the place.  If I kept the assless rat in a shoe box wrapped in duct tape, I suppose that'd contain the exploding rat, although that is only a theory and has yet to be proven by myself or science.  And plus, that'd be awfully selfish of me to steal away the rat's ass to give to someone else to prove I could care less about something, then stuffing the poor f*cker into a shoe box wrapped in duct tape.

When you consider how very little I care about a lot of shit, I'd be tossing out rat's asses out all the time, like a Las Vegas poker dealer.  So then I'd be faced with a plethora of assless rats.  That's a helluva problem.  I've not bought that many pairs of shoes in my lifetime, let alone have enough shoe boxes to contain all the assless rats.  One could double or triple them up in the shoe boxes, I suppose, but cannibalism runs wild in the rat kingdom.  If left in a shoe box, I'm sure one would eventually turn on the other, which is disgusting, not to mention, the cannibal rat would be adding to the compiling poop in it's system, ironically causing it to explode all the more quickly.

A "humane" alternative, would be to purchase myself a snake.  This way, once the rat's ass was issued to whomever, the remaining parts of the rat could be fed to the snake.  I'm not a fan of snakes, though.  Especially, the constrictor variety.  I see them on TV and in that Harry Potter movie, and they always look like their thinking.  I don't like any creature that appears to be smarter than myself.  Not too mention, you always hear about those f*cking snakes getting out of their cages and killing the family pet or worse.  I don't have any small children in my household, unless you include my cat, Monkey.  He's an agile little f*cker, but I don't know how he'd fair against a large constricting snake, and I don't wish to find out.

My not caring about things could run up quite an expensive tally.  Though inexpensive, dozens and dozens of rats would add up quickly, not to mention the cost of a snake and all the shit you need to encase one of those bastards.  My bank account would quickly dwindle, this much I am certain of.

Obviously I've given this subject a lot of thought.  I've also considered the idea that I don't care about a lot of shit.  I don't know if this makes me shallow or callous.  I do, however, have trouble in distinguishing whether I could or couldn't care less.  Nor do I know exactly, when to give a shit or not give a shit about something.  The latter, I suppose, has to do with one's diet.  I suppose if a person consumes a lot of roughage, then they, in theory, could give a shit about a lot more.  Personally, I'm allergic to a lot of stuff like whole wheat products, and therefore am unable to drop a deuce when it's deemed necessary to convey my dislike or lack of care on a particular subject.  I still poop, yes.  I'm not in danger of exploding myself, but I just can't do it at the drop of a hat.

This is quite a dilemma that I'm faced with.  Damned if I do.  Damned if I don't.  I have no avenues in which to confer with on this subject.  Nobody knows the trouble I face on a daily basis.  I've consulted the internet with hopes of finding a solution, but I don't even want to go into detail about the sick shit that has come up.  Suffice it to say, there's a lot of sick f*ckers in the world.

I could invest a lot more time into the discovery of  how to deal with this dilemma.  Lord knows I have the time, but....  When you get right down to it, it doesn't really concern me a lot.  I guess, I just don't give two shits about it.