Break On Through To The Other Side

There are a plethora of ghost investigation and storytelling programs blanketing today's television and admittedly I am one of their devotees. I'm not a fan of the "When Ghosts Attack" or any of those strictly terrifying type shows, as they do scare the f*ck outta me.  I don't necessarily believe that ever location on every street, has a ghostly resident.  If you watch enough of these programs, you are lead to believe that there is an influx of homeless spirits, as if Heaven has a housing problem.

I don't know if I truly believe in a ghostly afterlife.  I've had a few experiences that would convince me there is, but in an effort to maintain some self reassurance (and preservation of sanity), I easily explain everything away, including simply shrugging off anything that can't be explained.  A few weeks back, I was playing with my cat in my basement.  He's been enthralled with the deep freeze I had delivered a couple of months back.  Every time I open it to retrieve something out, he's right there, trying to get in.  So in the midst of our play, I picked him up, opened the freezer and placed him inside.  I NEVER closed the lid.  I'd never do that to my little boy, but I wanted him to know what the deal was.  He'd only been inside for a second or two, when suddenly I was struck, dead center, in the back with some kind of heavy metal object.  I was the only person (other than the cat) down in that basement.  I grabbed my boy out of the freezer, closed the lid and swung around, staring into open space.  Nothing was there.  Nothing that could be seen with the naked eye.

There are negative spaces in my basement.  Cold spots, that according to the "professional" ghost investigators, can be attributed to the existence of ghosts.  Stealing all the positive energy from around them, in an attempt to manifest themselves or hurl inanimate objects at the unsuspecting living.  Then again, it is a basement.  Basements have cold spots.  It's an imperfect world.  I admit some concern, blindly looking about the basement, before shrugging my shoulders and made my exit.

I can't say for sure, whether there is or is not anything residing in my house.  It was only built in 1992, so it's not very old, but since moving in seven years ago, I've experienced weird little things, including seeing a black cat wander past the corner of my eye, years before I got my very own cat.  One of the things my cat does, is sit and look past me to something behind me, although there never seems to be anything there.  Or equally freaky, speaking of my basement, he will often wander into the basement and will sit attentively looking up at... nothing.  I've heard that pets and small children are able to see ghostly apparitions.  Both my nephews, on occasions as very small toddlers, have spoken of playing in the bedroom with grandpa.  Both of their grandfathers have been long since deceased, well before their births.

My guilty pleasures include Ghost Hunters, Ghost Adventures and the recently cancelled, Haunted Collector, which featured famed paranormal investigator, John Zaffis.  I am enthralled by the evidence that the investigators collect on their many many cases.  I love the fact that the fellas (and gals) on Ghost Hunters will debunk and reveal anything that is being faked or exaggerated, including the time they were invited to investigate a haunted restaurant and bar on the west coast, where it was reported that a ghostly face would appear in the bathroom mirror.  It was discovered that the mirror was back lit and most of the reported haunted spots in the establishment, was being faked by the owners.  I appreciate, as a fan, that they went ahead and aired that episode, as a "f*ck you" to anyone who attempts to poke fun or make light of their science.

Although, of the three programs that I listed, Ghost Hunters seems to be the more ridiculous of the trio.  Engulfed by the darkness, lit only in infrared green, investigators challenge the spirits to make a sound, then act all surprised and skeptical when their request is answered.  "Show us you're here by knocking three times on the wall."  Then they hear a muffled bump... bump... ...bump!  Suddenly, they're shocked, charging down the hall calling out, "Who did that?  Who's here?  Show yourselves!"  Why ask the spirits to do something then act all wild and f*cking nuts with they comply?

Ghost Adventures used to be an intriguing show.  The three participants would get locked into a location for the entire night, with absolutely no access to the outside.  If there were any ghosts and specters inside the house or structure where they were, they were stuck together whether they liked it or not.  Nowadays, they have free range, coming and going at their leisure.  If a situation gets too intense, they're free to leave and rest off-site.  Plus, the evidence they collect went from being scattered and infrequent to (now) getting compelling evidence, every f*cking time.  I still watch, but do so, now, tongue-in-cheek.  I make my own decisions on whether the evidence is real or not.

John Zaffis' Haunted Collector, was the more interesting show of them all.  He's of the believe that spirits or ghostly energy will attach themselves to objects, like an old hair brush or knives, blades or guns.  Bones have been discovered, as well old mirrors and even poisons.  A menagerie of objects were found during the short-lived series, as well as in his professional life, that were removed from the locations, resulting in the reduction or total disappearance of paranormal activity.  I liked the show.  It was interesting.

The most ridiculous of all the paranormal shows is Ghost Hunters International.  I've tried to watch the show in the past, hoping it'd be as interesting and fun as the original Ghost Hunters, but fails miserably.  Their investigators take all that shit SO f*cking serious, that fun is discouraged from investigations.  Part of the charm of Ghost Hunters is the fun and joking that is exchanged between Steve Gonsalves and Dave Tango, including Steve betting $10 to Dave to put stuff in his mouth.  Ghost Hunters International, never has these fun antics.  Instead, it's straight-laced, no-nonsense, take-themselves-too-f*cking-serious.  What bugs me more, though, is the international part of the show.

I know the title indicates that they investigate paranormal incidents across the globe, but what they fail to do is embrace the world cultures as they do their investigations.  Every paranormal-type show does is guilty of this, but you'd think that a program which embraces it's internationality, would enter the enterprise a little more realistically.  Last night, I recorded the Ghost Hunters International, mainly because Kris Williams, who began on the original Ghost Hunters, now appeared on GHI.  She is the second from the left in the picture up top.  She is very pretty and has big boobs.  Two attributes I appreciate in a woman (among other things -- I'm not completely shallow, but I am honest).

Last night's show, was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back.  The crew were in American Samoa investigating claims that an ancient Samoan King haunted the grounds of a closed girl's school.  The premise, itself, sounds f*cking ridiculous.  Like a king doesn't have better things to do, than haunt a deserted learning facility.  During the program, locals are interviewed and maybe, 95% or better of them, aren't able to speak a lick of English.  I'm a little confused as to why the island is called American Samoa, if none of the motherf*ckers living there, can speak the f*cking language?  But I digress.  

None of them can speak English now, so suffice it to assume that NONE of them spoke any English two or three hundred years ago.  Yet, investigators venture out into the darkness and call out and do EVPs (Electronic Voice Phenomenon), all in English.  They received very little feedback.  Some, in the Samoan language, which I'm sure loosely translated into "What the f*ck are you saying?  Speak the language, motherf*cker!"  Especially rough, was the investigator, Joe Chin, the chubby Asian dude (the too-cool-for-school dude in the shades in the picture), who speaks like Elmer Fudd.  If I thought ancient Samoans had a rough time understanding the regular folks, trying to decipher the speech impediment of a virtual cartoon character, would be extremely difficult.  "If yo he-oh, show yo-say-uwf."

"If day-ohs any evidence, it-oh re-veo it-sewf du-wing analysis."  How ridiculous is it that grown-ass-adults still speak like this today?

I have some doubts that there is any sort of spirits residing in my house, or more specifically, my basement.  If I were a ghost, I'd plant myself in the living room and hope that the residents of my home shared my interest in television.  I love TV and would be content on spending eternity watching it, provided they stayed away from shit like The Bachelor, Grey's Anatomy or The Good Wife.  F*ck that shit.  That'd be Hell.  Spending eternity watching Paranormal shows and NCIS re-runs...  Now THAT, would be Heaven.

Sensible Values

When I die, I'd like to donate my brain to science.  Unfortunately, I wouldn't benefit from the science of learning what makes my mind tick, the root causes of why it meanders and thinks about the random shit that it does, but I'm sure it'd be an interesting read, nonetheless...

The latest random thought to pop into my nugget and stay like an unwanted house guest, refers to the "Little Red Riding Hood" story.  I have a plethora of thoughts that root themselves in my head and, thankfully, I have this avenue (Jeff's Brain Matter) to discuss and investigate these thoughts, and I promise to eventually get to many of these thought-provoking-subjects, but today, let's stick to Red Riding Hood.

Everybody knows the children's story of "Little Red Riding Hood".  Grandma's sick, so Little Red ventures out through a scary forest in a bad neighbourhood, wrought with hungry carnivores, with a basket full of baked goods, bound for granny's house.  She interacts with a terrifying wolf, who instead of viciously attacking a helpless little girl, comes up with an elaborate ruse to disguise himself as her grandmother, in order to capture and consume the unsuspecting youth, but before his plan can come to fruition, a local woodsman breaks in and (SPOILER ALERT) slews the hungry wolf, thus saving the day.

I question the logistics of the story.  One, irresponsibly sending a small child through a dense forest to grandma's house, alone and unprotected.  The story was written in the 17th century, so it's not as if mom and dad could've tossed Red into the back of the Honda and driven to grandma's, but surely people possessed some kind of common sense in relation to child safety.  Two, the riding hood.

Think about this.  Her name literally contained the garment that she wore, which I surmise means she wore that f*cking cloak ALL THE TIME, and why wear a riding hood?  Probably because she rode a horse and rode it A LOT.  This being said, why didn't she ride the horse to her grandmother's house?  The same dangers would exist, but she'd have a little more security riding atop a spirited steed.  But she didn't.  I suspect because Red's parents placed more value on the horse than the life and safety of their beloved daughter.  That's pretty f*cked up!!

The whole story sounds iffy, at best.  Even for a fabled story, written centuries ago, there's no lesson to be learned, but I have learned a thing or two: (i) Wolves are stupid and over-think every situation. (ii) Breaking and entering was an allowable offense by an axe-wielding maniac, if there's a life to be saved; which I think my be acceptable today. (iii) Parents in the 17th century, lacked sensible values.

**If grandma is prone to sickness, why the hell is she living in the middle of nowhere?

Babies Shooting Guns

I had an Atari 2600 when I was a kid.  Other kids poked fun at it's archaic technology, which failed considerably to the tech that their video game systems provided.  Ironically, as cheap and unfulfilling as the tech was then, it's greatly sought after today.  It's my belief, that there's a certain charm that accommodates the simplicity of the times.  An innocence that we've lost and are now in desperate search of.  The flash and speed of today's video games are awesome and heart-pounding, but sometimes it's nice to sit back for a relaxing game of Pong.  In simpler terms, going to the latest popular restaurant for an evening of gourmet dining is fantastic, but it's more enjoyable to settle down for some of grandma's apple pie and iced tea.

I had cap guns as a child.  I reveled in the smell of spent caps burning from the toy handgun after firing off a barrage of paper caps at imaginary foes.  Later on, I'd be gifted a plastic machine gun that you'd cock back the "firing mechanism" and it'd sound off a string of violent tones, like no other.  It even had a small red protruding mass at the end of the barrel to simulate fire.  It was a cool toy and I may even still have that kicking around somewhere in my basement, I think with my Star Wars figures.  Imagination was the key to fun playtime.

Today, it seems, imagination isn't enough.  Actually, when looked into deeper, I think kids who use an imagination are deemed defective, having some kind of mental deficiency that "professionals" need to aggressively address with mind-numbing medication.  I believe they've reassigned "imagination" as "Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD)"  Today, it seems that kids need more mental stimulation.  To be more hands on.  Case and point;  That poor nine year old girl last week who mistakenly shot her shooting instructor with an uzi.

Since then, there's been a nationwide debate on whether it's acceptable for a small child to be handling any kind of weaponry, let alone a freakin' uzi.  Gun freaks are standing firm that children need to learn how to use such weapons, insisting that the American Constitution decrees it so.  Being Canadian, I don't know exactly what all the Amendments decree or not, but given the advancement in the 227 years since it's inception, I'm sure some of the original amendments would be up for interpretation.  That being said, because I AM Canadian, chances are I have a greater handle on the subject than most Americans.  The Bill of Rights was enacted between 1787 and 1789, which was a completely different era.  The Second Amendment, the Right to Bear Arms, wasn't added until 1791 and at that time, everyone had single shot muskets.  I'm sure the Founding Fathers would be whistling a different tune today, if they came across the menagerie of mechanized destruction available to their citizens.  I'm sure they'd be busting out the Thesaurus and wording the amendment differently, so as not to be misconstrued by the borderline insane.  For sure, they wouldn't want today's mismanaged youth getting a hold of such weapons.

I've said it before and I will happily repeat this.  Unless there's a zombie apocalypse, there's really no need for ANY child to be picking up and firing off an assault weapon.  To do so, is completely insane.  We don't allow children to vote until the age of 18, because they're not educated enough to make an important decision like choosing the leader of the free world.  Children are not allowed to operate a motor vehicle until the age of 16, because it's believed their not coordinated enough to operate a sophisticated machine like a Buick or Toyota.  Yet, people believe a f*cking 9-year old girl should be intelligent and coordinated enough to proficiently operate an assault weapon..?  On Twitter this morning I came across a conversation between Anderson Cooper (@AC360) and Hollywood director, Judd Apatow (@JuddApatow), where the "This is 40" director argued that his "large for her age" six-year old shouldn't be discriminated against if she wishes to shoot a machine gun.  I hope he's only kidding, but if he's not, I hope his wife, Leslie Mann, slaps some sense into his head.

I know parents aren't in any hurry to have their kids grow up, and I believe that shooting real guns, will steal away their innocence, just as tragically as Father O'Brien's one-on-one tutoring sessions with little Billy after Sunday school.  As a kid, I liked the smell of freshly fired off paper cap gun strips.  So much so, that I would forgo the cap gun, spreading out the roll and using my dad's hammer to pop them off.  I doubt little Susie likes the air of GSR on her clothes after rattling out 50 rounds of 9mm shells.

As an adult, at my father's urging, I picked up a .22 rifle and shot a pigeon that was roosted in the old barn on the farm where I grew up.  I did not enjoy that experience, nor the guilt that I felt following it.  Another experience I had with a hand gun, was when I rung a door bell in Edmonton, Alberta.  The resident had been the victim of home invasion twice before and no longer took chances when a stranger rang his bell.  I was greeted with the largest barrel I've ever laid eyes on, pointed straight at me, aimed between my eyes.  The image to this day, still gives me debilitating shivers and nightmares.  Movies and video games have provided most of us with a fractured reality of what exactly these devices are and the reality of their destruction, completely disregarding the innocence that is lost in the process.

Given all the gun violence and school shootings in recent years, I can't wrap my head around the concept that "intelligent" people can't (or won't) support some kind of gun restriction or control to help regulate semi-automatic assault weapons.  It's inexplicable to me that their answer to gun violence is more guns.  And it blows my mind that they want their babies shooting right along side of them.

The Walking Dead is an amazing program.  I love every episode and never miss a single week, when it's on.  Have you noticed it takes place in the deep south?  I reckon it's because of the backward thinking of the rednecks.  Backward thinking like marrying your cousins and letting your pre-schoolers carry Mac-10 sub-machine guns in their backpacks. If there's a zombie outbreak in America, it's going to be a smorgasbord.  Nobody seems to be using their brains for much anyway.

Two hundred and twenty-seven years since the inception of the Bill of Rights...  How do we know the Founding Father's just wanted people to have the option to wear shirts without sleeves?  It's up for interpretation. 

Boobs!!

Watching early Sunday-morning TV and came across a dude being interviewed between two programs.  He's the head of a major automotive aftermarket equipment company, whose charity work includes raising money for Breast Cancer Research.  Of all the cancer researches, Breast Cancer Research is my favourite, as I am admittedly a fan of boobs.

Though he did fairly well, it must've been his first time on camera, because some of his answers were a little iffy.  His interviewer, a breathy-voiced female TV personality asking all the questions you'd expect of an interview of this sort.  He, delving into his company's history of funds raised for the cause, last year equating well over $430K.  And when asked if he had anything else to add, he added, alright.

"Remember that it's 1 in 8 women that are diagnosed with breast cancer," he said, though I would question those statistics... seems a little high. "These women are mothers, daughters... They could be friends or co-workers.  Or even a combination of all four."  What a boob...!

I snickered.  He left out schoolmate, so stay in school, girls.  It might save your life or your boobs, at least.

Dance With Death - Part 2

Brushes with death isn't anything new for me.  You might be surprised by just how often I've come close to death.  I've side-stepped the inevitable so often that one might think that I'd have more faith in a higher power... but I don't.  Divine intervention?  Nope!  More like dumb luck or fluke.

Survival #1:

Growing up, I idolized my cousin.  He was a couple years my senior and had a life that seemed extravagant and wild and fun, even though he was a kid from a town, population less than 500, I'm sure.  His graduating class was four and he was the only male.  I'm sure he didn't care for his pipsqueak cousin from the city, tagging along, but it was only once every four or five months, so he took it in stride and I enjoyed every minute I could muster.

On one particular evening, my cousin was going to go driving with a friend of his.  This friend was a year or two older than he was and had a driver's license.  I suppose it could be argued that he looked up to his friend, just as much as I did my cousin.  They were set to go for a drive, which I assume in those days was traveling the back roads, drinking some beers and chatting about the mischief so-and-so was up to and who's fooling around with who.  But I was inexplicably tired on this evening, so I uncharacteristically opted out.  They asked if I was certain, adding that I was welcome to nap in the back seat if I got too tired.  I remember looking down at the dark embroidered backseat and contemplating, but decided to be responsible.  A trait I've not practiced a lot in my illustrious lifetime.

I awoke the next morning to news that my cousin and his friend had been in a vehicle rollover.  I don't remember all the details of the accident, but essentially they'd hit the ditch and the car flipped over itself.  As a young boy, I very rarely wore a seat belt, especially as a passenger in the back seat.  Plus, given my lethargy the night before, there would've been a very good chance that I would've been sprawled out in the back seat, fast asleep.  My limp body would've been tossed around the cabin of that little Ford coupe, like a rag doll.  I would've definitely put their survival rate in jeopardy, as would mine.  If I were lucky enough to be ejected from the vehicle, I doubt any survival would have been very bearable.  But I wasn't there.  I was safe at home, nestled in my bed.  Alive.

Survival #2:

My family used to have season tickets to the local hockey team, the Saskatoon Blades.  My mom, dad, sister, and her first husband, the cheating scumbag piece of shit, but let's just call him Grant.  My sister and the scumbag, sorry, I mean Grant, were very athletic, so it made sense for them to have season tickets.  My dad loved his son-in-law more than his son, so he bought season tickets too, and to leave my mom out would be rude, so he bought tickets for her, too.  I was allowed to go to games if he was otherwise occupied, usually with work.  (It would come out that my sister's then husband was a cheating scumbag piece of shit, after my dad had passed away.  Good thing for the scumba--, I mean Grant, that my dad never learned that character flaw, otherwise he'd have been f*cked up by my dad.  Although, I like to speculate, sometimes.)

One evening, my dad was off at work and I was offered the vacant ticket.  Usually, I would jump at the chance, not that I was (or am) a big hockey fan.  I'm not.  But I enjoyed going out to the big arena and taking in the sights and sounds of excitement.  Sometimes I'd run into old school mates and catch up on what was new in their lives.  On this night, however...  Just not into it.  I opted out.

If I'd have gone, I would've tagged along with my sister and scumbag in their Ford Festiva.  Not sure if you're familiar with it, but essentially it's a little tin shitbox on 12" wheels.  Google it.  You'll agree.  That night, after the game, my sister at the wheel, turned her little red shitbox onto the highway, and headed back into the city, as the arena was located on the outskirts of town at the time.  In the years since, the city has grown exponentially, eating up the real estate around the sports complex, but in those days, it was pretty remote.

So my sister turns right onto the highway to head back into the city and her little car was quickly slammed in the rear end.  Force of the impact was so severe that the entire rear end was crunched up against the back of her driver's seat, the bumper, literally just inches from her spine.  Remarkably, both she and Grant... f*ck it!  The scumbag, came out of the accident without much injury.  However, if I had tagged along as I often had, I'd most certainly have been dead.  Nobody would've survived that impact if they were in the back seat.

Survival #3:

I slipped on some ice.  Just one foot.  My left.  However, in doing so, I somehow twisted my leg and tore my calf muscle.  Not a pleasant feeling.  I do not recommend it.  Especially considering the months that would follow that misstep.

My treatment was to ice it, keep it elevated and wear a tensor bandage, in addition to keeping off my feet.  No problem.  Seems simple enough, but I was never shown exactly how to apply a tensor bandage.  It always appeared simple enough.  I'd strained and tore muscles before that and used a tensor bandage successfully without incident, but this time around was not the case.  I always preferred the bandage to be snug.  Nothing bugs me more than feeling that f*cking bandage unravel.  I hate repeating myself in any case, especially when it comes to tedious tasks.  Apparently, I liked it a little too snug and a blood clot formed in my calf muscle.

I learned that if a blood clot forms in your lower leg, it's not good but can be treated if discovered quickly enough.  If the clot breaks off and heads up your vein, past your knees, it's gets more dangerous.  If it hits your heart...  You're f*cked!  Mine was discovered pretty fast... Discovered above my knees, destination: Heartland.  I was rushed hastefully into emergency and treated extraordinarily fast.  Blasted with Warfarin, which is essentially rat poison.  In fact, that's how it works on the rodent species.  They basically bleed to death.  Thankfully, it doesn't have that permanence in humans, although your blood does get really thin and if you cut yourself, you CAN and WILL bleed out if you don't seek immediate medical attention.

I don't know how "serious" this event was, but the medical staff at the hospital where I was a resident for about a week and my own personal physician never hesitated to tell me how "lucky" I was.  Okay... maybe.  That's why I count this as survival number three.

Survival #4:

It was over ten years ago.  It was also the first time I had gotten pneumonia.  I remember stepping out of a nice hot shower into a cold f*cking house and BLAM!  Both lungs collapsed on me.  I knew immediately that I was in deep shit, but wasn't sure how deep.  Completely winded, I called for an ambulance, but decided against it when I learned that I would be the one paying for the ride.  What the f*ck happened to free healthcare?  Too many assholes taking advantage of a good situation.  Leave it to the crackheads to f*ck it up for us normals. 

Winded, I got myself dressed and toddled myself out to my car.  It was a 5-speed, but I managed to get myself to the hospital.  I suspected that I'd be there for awhile, so I chose not to park in the paid parking lot, but instead in the free lot across the street.  I'm guessing many thought that way, because these days, that shit is way expensive.

It took me about an hour to walk across the street.  Extreme yes, but I save a fortune on the ambulance... and parking.  As memory serves, I was a guest in the hospital for another week or so.  I remember hospital staff being amazed and disturbed at my feat, adding how lucky I was I didn't die in the process.  I've collapsed a part of a lung since then, which I'm told was quite serious, so I guess two complete collapses could be construed as serious.  

Whether or not I'm a survivor of death is disputatious, at best, but you must admit that I have managed to sidestep some serious shit.  So whatever this new medical setback is that is being placed on plate, I'm sure the shit will turn out right. 

Dance With Death - Part One

Tuesday night I found myself short of breath, partnered with an painful ache in my back.  Having injured my back, drastically, back in January.  Although I've been feeling a helluva lot better in the months since, I thought I might have tweaked my back.  Not the case.  The shortness of breath increased, followed by vomiting, sweats and chills.  Finally on day 3, I went to the hospital.

It's pneumonia.  Spent the entire day, hooked up to oxygen and an I.V., before getting uprooted and sent to another hospital, where I remained under observation and tethered to either an oxygen outlet on the wall or an oxygen tank that I could take along with me to the john, if needed.  I was allowed at 3:30am to wander out, oxygen tank in tow, to search for a soda machine.  Best damned Diet Pepsi, everrrr.  Dressed in a housecoat, to cover my sexy butt, I had to pass through security to get back to observation, and the dude actually had to ask if I was a patient...  "Seriously?" I asked, referencing the housecoat and oxygen tank.

More than twenty-four hours later, closer to twenty-six, I was allowed to return home, with a prescription for anti-biotics in-hand.  I went to pick-up said prescription and god damn it that motherf*cker had a price tag of over $72.  For 9 pills.  One pill a day is all I'm required to take, and they want $72 for that shit.  I flat out refused to pay and opted not to take the pills.

Most of my family.., nay all of my family would pay the outrageous price then bitch and moan about it.  I'm more the type to thumb my nose at the establishment and say F*ck you.  Seventy-two bucks for nine f*cking pills?  Complete bullshit.

This isn't my first go around with pneumonia.  This is actually my fourth bout with the deadly virus.  Two years ago it was quite serious, more so because when the hospital took x-rays, they found a little extra goody on my right lung.  Described at first as an anomaly, it later became a mass, then a large mass.  Although the mystery seemed to get worse, the specialist seeing over my case, seemed to down play it, finally telling me in October of last year that she was sure it was "nothing".  Fast forward to this past Thursday, where I was treated to an x-ray AND a CT Scan, I was informed that this "black mass" has increased in size.  That it may be a contributing factor as to why I've become so susceptible to sickness as of late.  The physician also told me some other doctor-jargon, a bunch of latin-sounding words that didn't make any sense to me, but by the serious tone the doctor kept and the first sign of compassion he'd shown toward anyone that day, had convinced me that I was in store for a whole lot of shit.

Taking into consideration that my life may be in jeopardy as a result of this latest bout of sickness, should I really be concerned with a $72 bill for anti-biotics...?  Yeah...  I don't think my life is worth shelling out $72.  Not for nine f*cking pills. 

Where The F_ck Did I Park?

I remember years ago, getting really high with some friends and hitting the bar.  Actually, to be specific, I remember going to my friend's house, I kind of remember being at the bar, and I sort of remember some of the trek home at 3am.  Yeah.  The events of that night are and were as smoky as the room where we'd sparked up.  I'm sure I had fun.  Maybe...  Maybe not.

I don't in any way condone or endorse driving under the influence of any sort, and I've not done anything of the sort since that time.  Believe me, the events that followed made it perfectly clear that this practice should definitely not be the norm.

In a haze, I recall driving home down one of the less traveled streets that ran parallel with the main drag through that part of the city.  I was completely paranoid of trouble, I drove extra cautious and slow.  Especially, considering I drove a Camaro at the time, which is sort of a cop-magnet.  I got home, parked in my spot, and plugged the car in (it was winter time), then went into the house and went immediately to sleep.

I lived at home at the time and my mother woke me up in the morning when she was about to leave for work.  "Where'd you park your car?" she asked.  Considering how fuzzy the night before was, I was baffled by the query.  I was certain that I'd parked in the back, next to her car, but upon investigation, I saw that the electrical cord that I'd used to plug in the block heater on the car, was neatly slung over the fence, the usual spot where I would hang it.  I ran to the front, thinking maybe the car was parked on the street.  It wasn't there.  I struggled to remember where I would've parked or if I'd even driven the car home.

Apparently, I had.  Apparently, some kids happened by, not long after I'd parked the car in the back and apparently, they had a hell of a good time rippin' around the quiet winter streets and side-swiping a f*cking pole.

I loved that car.  I had it fixed and it looked good, but it was never the same for me after that.  In addition to the education I received from not leaving my sports car unattended in the back yard of a house situated in a bad part of town, I learned that good people aren't allowed to have nice things and that you should never ever drive under the influence of alcohol or narcotics.d

Red Lining It Like An Angry Bear

I was sitting at a red light.  For a split fraction of a half second, I glanced over to the construction in progress across the street, during which time the traffic light switched to green, at which time the fella in the truck behind me lays on the f*ckin' horn, startling me.  I immediately flipped him the bird, for being a dick, and watched in my rearview mirror, as he smiled and waved like it was a stupid joke.

There was two lanes and if the asshole was in that much of a hurry, he should've gone around me, but instead, he laid on his horn.  Then when I speed off, he doesn't keep up.  I wasn't in a hurry, yet I was speeding down the secluded street going about 55mph.  He was clearly in a hurry, on account that he couldn't wait the extra 30th of a second.

I don't understand why people gotta lay on the f*cking horn when the person in front of them hesitates to screech the tires off the line, redlining the engine and roaring down the street like an angry bear.  Relax you stupid motherf*ckers.  Life isn't that f*cking important.  If you're in a hurry, leave earlier.  Don't be a stupid shit. 

We Three Kings

Growing up, one of my best friends shared my first name: Jeff.  Off an on, we were best friends, then bitter enemies.  Once we got into high school, though, we'd settled on being really good friends.  In the twelfth grade, the two of us became friends with another kid, from another school.  Ironically, his name was Jeff, too.  It was strange, but high school tends to be kind of a f*cked up time, anyway.

One Saturday afternoon, the three of us ventured to the downtown mall.  It's a place that I, personally, very seldom visited.  To this day, I still avoid the mall, downtown, due mainly to the cluster of homeless and street urchins that frequent the mall.  No matter the time of day, I do not feel safe.  However, as a brazen teenager, I was less concerned about personal safety.  Especially, when strolling the corridors with my pals.

In addition to all of us sharing the same first names, we also all possessed the same small stature.  Not weak, per se, but we weren't hulking testosterone-filled adolescents.  Average sized guys, but easily bullied if the opportunity ever presented itself.  On this Saturday afternoon, the opportunity presented itself.

A couple street urchins, as I call them.  Hoodlums, would be another name.  Peoples of questionable ethics, would be the a more "politically correct" terminology.  Today, I'm sure these delinquents are probably screwing the new inmates at whatever penitentiary they're currently incarcerated in, but at this time, I think they were still amping up to bigger criminal activities.  

I remember there were a couple of them.  Big and tall.  They definitely towered over our small frames.  "Give us your smokes!!" they commanded, cornering the three of us into a small alcove in the mall corridor, stuck between the A&W restaurant and some novelty gift shop.  I remember everything seemed to go dark.  I don't know if their size was blocking out the light or if it was fear warming over me, in either case I was fearful.

Being asthmatic, I never smoked cigarettes.  Neither did Jeff.  Jeff did, but they never asked him, directly at first, instead making the demands for cigarettes in general.  Of the two delinquents, the big guy in the rear, kept a look out, standing with his back towards us, his head swinging back and forth.  Left and right, perusing for security of any sort, while the big guy in front of him, standing over us, began drilling us for information.

Standing over me, staring at me through dead empty eyes, he demanded "Give me your smokes!"  I stuttered telling him that I didn't smoke.  He stared silently at me for what felt like forever. "What's your name?!" he asked softly, but menacingly.  I stammered as I told him.

He stepped to his right, my left, and repeated his demand to the next Jeff, who also told him he didn't smoke.  The punk stepped in real close and softly requested his name, just as he had with me.  "Jeff," he answered.

The immoral culprit did a double-take, looking at him then back at me, suspecting something was aloof.  He then took another step to his right, our left.  He placed his hand on the wall, posing his face directly in front of the third Jeff's face, as if daring him to strike back.  "Give me your smokes!"

Jeff shook his head, claiming he was out.  The hoodlum looked back at the two of us, who were staring at the floor, not making eye contact.  "And what's your name?"

"Jeff..."  This viscous prick, stopped, angrily staring back at all of us, determined that we were all lying and disrespecting him and he was ready to beat the living shit out of the three of us.  "You think this is a f*cking joke?"  Just then, his buddy tapped him on the shoulder, warning him that security was strolling up the promenade.  "You're lucky!" he said before he and his partner in crime rushed off in the opposite direction.

I don't remember a lot of my life, but I seem to remember the bad shit quite vividly.  I can recall every emotion that rushed through my body when a guy pulled a gun on me, in Edmonton, Alberta, aiming it straight in my face.  I can remember every emotion that I felt when I was physically beaten three days before my seventeenth birthday, by my drunken father, like it was slow-motion.  All the bad shit, I can remember the most intimate of details.  The day that me and my two friends, Jeff and Jeff, nearly got beaten to a pulp, simply because our parents liked the name Jeffrey, I can remember like it happened yesterday.

I'm not friends with them anymore.  I can't remember why...

Ice Ice Baby

For quite a few months now, I've been witnessing people, mostly celebrities, committing the ridiculous act of torture by dumping ice cold water on themselves, then challenging others to commit the same asinine act on themselves.  I never understood why.  Then again, people are notorious, celebrities especially, for doing stupid shit.  Just look at Justin Bieber.

Of course, nobody was stating WHY they're doing it.  Thank god for Google.  Without Google, I'd be totally f*cked.  I can't remember what I did ten years ago.  Living in caveman days....

According to Google, the Ice Bucket Challenge is supposed to bring attention to the disease, ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis), also known as Lou Gehrig's disease.  Never knew that until I read it on Google, so EPIC FAIL in that regard.

The story also explained that those who participate in the challenge, donate $10 to the cause, dump the ice water on themselves and challenge three others to do the same.  Apparently, dumping ice water on yourself is quite painful.  I wouldn't know.  I don't do stupid shit like that.  The closest I ever came to it was falling through some ice on a frozen dugout a few years ago (long story).  So I'm no stranger to what ice cold water feels like against your skin, but it's not something I'm going to re-enact, charity or no charity. 

Three people are challenged to dump ice water on themselves, post a video and challenge others to do the challenge.  Those who fail to perform the challenge within a twenty-four hour period, are supposed to donate $100.  This seems to make more sense than dumping water on yourself.

Those who choose not to do the challenge, I've read on my Twitter (@ToontownJuggalo), seem to be labeled cowardly, despite the fact that they're donating the larger sum of money.  Actor/comedian Chris D'Elia chose to donate rather than look like a f*cking idiot dumping water on themselves, but got called out by his "supposed" fans.  I completely understand his logic, as do I totally respect Charlie Sheen who video'd himself dumping $10,000 cash on himself.  Charlie and Chris both get the f*cking idea.  I would hope that the celebrities who have uploaded videos of themselves dumping water on themselves are donating more than a measly ten bucks towards the charity, except maybe Bieber.  He seems like a cheap-ass little prick.

What's ironic is the fact that so many cities, counties, states, and countries are complaining of water shortages, meanwhile people are dumping gallons upon gallons of water on themselves.  This doesn't impress me.  If the celebrities want to boast their charitable natures by doing stupid shit, lets see some videos of you slamming your fingers in car doors.  Now THAT's  a charity I'd pitch in for.

Century Drinking Club

I've been thinking a lot about drinking games, lately.  I'm not a big drinker, unless you consider my belligerence on my birthday, but that's only once a year (if that).  Still, on the rare occasions that I choose to get inebriated, believe it'd be more interesting, and garner more stories, if the process is achieved via a drinking game.

I'd like to create a game via trivia.  Movie trivia, more specifically, although I am guilty of having a mind full of useless entertainment knowledge, so intoxication would be more elusive for me, but those around me, would most likely get really f*cked up.

I did partake in a drinking game created by a friend, once upon a time, that involved a Disney movie.  I can't remember which one, probably because I got right-f*cked-up, but it was a cartoon, and one of the rules was taking a shot every time one of the characters said the word "Llama".  I wanna say "Emperor's New Groove", but that sounds like a Broadway musical...

It's a morbid thought, but if you watched Wrestlemania One or Two, and took a shot of whisky or your drink of choice, every time a deceased wrestler competes in a match, you could quite possibly pass out before the conclusion of the event.  Haven't tried that one, yet, but it's in the books, I think...  Provided I could ever find Wrestlemania on DVD form, not VHS.

Years ago, I participated in a drinking game that I thought was called the Centurion Game, but I've since learned that it's called the Century Club.  The premise of the game is simple.  Huddled around a clock, participants take one shot of beer, every minute for one hundred minutes.

Now when I played it, I couldn't drink beer, on account of having an allergy.  Yes!  I'm allergic to beer.  So instead, I substituted wine coolers, whose alcohol content is higher than that of beer.., and for you American readers, I'm talking about Canadian beer, that is already higher than American beer.  I don't know about wine coolers, but I believe the alcohol content is higher than run-of-the-mill beer.

Adding insult to injury, there were only a limited number of shot glasses, so I was forced to use a regular glass, so I was estimating an ounce at the start of the game.  About thirty minutes into the game, and thirty "shots" later, I was pouring half glasses and chugging them every sixty seconds.  About sixty minutes in, I was still hanging with the other participants, who were all using shot glasses, slamming back single ounces of beer to my every half-to-three quarter glasses of cooler.

By minute 87, I'd hit my limit, rising up from the table, walking out the front door and passing out in the nice cool grass.  I was accused of barfing, but with great pride, I can honestly say I did not. Later I was given an "honorary completion", as it was recognized that in my inebriated state, my judgement was skewed in pouring my own drinks.  I think in retrospect, I probably drank much more than 100 ounces of booze, despite it being wine cooler.

One drinking game I've been wanting to create, lately, is based on the Bert Kreischer podcast.  I've been listening to his Bertcast from Episode One.  I'm currently listening to Episode #49 as I type out this blog.  Ironically, this episode is based on drinking games, hence my inspiration.

Bert often broadcasts from his mancave (most of the time), often telling stories about his life on the road performing comedy over the years.  Bert also hosts a television show on the Travel Channel, that he speaks highly of.  Bert is a very infectious personality and a joy to listen to.  In his show, he does tend to repeat a few key words and expressions that I would consider prime keys for a drinking game.  One element I probably wouldn't include is Bert's incredibly infectious laughter, as it's difficult to suck back a shot when you're laughing your ass off, too.

Creating games aren't as easy as one would think.  I've had a thought for an actual board game for a f*ck of a long time, but haven't really put pencil-to-paper... so to speak.  If I had a drink for every idea I've ever come up with..., I'd be a f*ckin' lush...  CHEERS!

Blink of an Eye

I had a discussion the other day and the subject of my father being a farmer came up.  "Where does he farm?" the fella asked me, to which I quickly responded, "He passed away a few years ago..."  Then it hit me.  It wasn't a few years ago.  It isn't even ten years ago.  This past May marked the 15th anniversary of his death. I can't believe it.  Time flew by in the blink of an eye!

It's not often that things hit me like that.  The passage of time is fleeting.  It goes even faster than that, if your sitting behind a computer or game controller.  Many times I've sat down to check my email, then glanced up at the clock to discover that six hours had passed me by.  What the hell?

I remember years ago, playing Duck Hunt on the old generation one Nintendo game system.  I was going to have a quick game before turning in.  It wasn't until I saw the sun coming up, that I realized what I'd done.  That stupid laughing dog tricked me.

I shudder to mention the Tang story, but it makes for a good laugh.  Years ago, I lived in Edmonton for a short while.  During that time, I experimented a little bit with getting high on marijuana.  One particular night, we hit it pretty good and I disappeared, for what I'm told was a few hours.  When finally they came looking for me, I was discovered in the kitchen, eating grape tang out of the cannister and I'd been doing so, one finger at a time.  The next morning, when I woke up, I thought I'd broken my finger as it was stained a deep eggplant purple.  I took a helluva ride, that night.

Today, I was in my car driving home from an appointment.  Usually I listen to Howard Stern, but it was a repeat where they were goofing on Oprah, so I tuned into another channel.  Pink was playing and the song was "Don't Let Me Get Me".  It's catchy and I like Pink, so I let it play.  Looking down at the screen on my Sirius receiver, I was shocked to see that the song was released in 2002.  "F*ck me!" I uttered out loud to myself.  "I remember when that was new!"  When did Pink become a retro-tune?  Twelve years since it's release.  I'm feeling frickin' ancient, right now.  Thanks a lot, Father Time, you prick!

Davy Jones' Locker

First of all, may I just say that Google is f*cking amazing.  No matter how stupid the search description is that is typed into the information bar, more times than not, the exact result is found within a fraction of a second.  Believe me when I say, "I've set forth, deter-mined to find a picture for some really stupid shit, and by god, Google finds it every f*cking time.  I've tried that with Bing....  F*ck Bing.  Useless as all f*ck, but Google?  Absolutely amazing!  When I punched in "Pirate Grasshopper", I didn't think I'd actually find a 'grasshopper pirate'.  Granted, it looks pretty cheezy, but they can't all be golden.

Innocence Lost - RIP Robin Williams

News of the death came suddenly and unexpected, yesterday afternoon.  I was sitting on my couch, flipping through my Twitter feed, like I've done thousands of times before, when all of a sudden the feed was blanketed with well wishes and RIPs to the beloved comedian.  My heart stopped and sunk deep into my chest.  Panic overwhelmed me, mixed with confusion and disbelief.  What sort of tragedy could've happened? I wondered, speculating maybe another heart episode, given he'd had heart problems in the past.

I scrambled to my PC and immediately tapped his name into Google.  I was first met with a website that claimed that Robin Williams was the victim of a death hoax, similar to one's experienced by Jeff Goldblum, Jackie Chan, Russell Crowe and even Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, who responded "I would love to meet the person who is starting rumors of my death - to show them how a dead foot feels up their ass!"  I rested back in my chair, relieved for a moment that the reports of Williams' death, was a a ruse.  However, the dozens of websites directly beneath that one, told a much different tale.  A much darker and dreadful story, that broke my heart all over again.

Reports that the actor was discovered asphyxiated in his home.  Immediately, speculation jumped to suicide, although at the time, it was only mentioned that the actor had been experiencing major depression as of late.  To jump immediately to the conclusion of suicide, though...  I didn't want to believe it.  I refused to believe it.  It's one thing to feel helpless and alone.  I feel like that almost everyday.  It's another thing, I feel, to feel this way, yet have dozens of avenues all around you.  Robin has wonderful loving children.  He's got a beautiful loving wife. Dozens of caring friends and millions of fans.  Twitter, alone, is a fantastic artery for fans to connect with their heroes to send well-wishes and praise.  Albeit, there are some assholes who use the social media device to shit on people, but this is Robin-freakin'-Williams, an angel of men who walked amongst us.  I'm nobody special, but I get overwhelmed with good will and pride when someone responds positively to one of my tweets.

Found asphyxiated, they claimed.  I thought immediately that perhaps it was an accident.  Perhaps an allergic reaction to something.  Maybe he was on a new prescription and it reacted the wrong way.  Speaking personally, my allergy to peanuts is so bad, that if I'm simply in a room with the nut, I can feel my chest grow tight and breathing becomes laboured in a major way.  If left too long, I'm confident my dead ass would be found slumped in a corner.

Sadly, the news was broke today.  Robin Williams committed suicide by hanging himself with a belt.  I was speechless.  Saddened by the report, but more so by how sad and miserable he must have been in those final moments.  The room grew silent, as if the entire world had been placed on pause.  No birds were chirping, no traffic passed by my house.  It was like the entire world had stopped for a respective moment of silence.  I commented on a friend's Facebook post yesterday that if feels like a huge void has been left in his wake.

Left to my own thoughts, I couldn't help but wonder about his state of mind.  Curious as to what brought him to the point that he felt there was no other alternative, but to exit this world.  In the past, I can recall a couple of occasions where I was so low that I did actually want to die.  Once in high school, but opted out realizing that it was more out of spite than out of releasing any sort of mental anguish.  Then again a few years ago, when I'd lost my job due to horrendous circumstances.  Kind words from a person I cared deeply for, literally saved my life that day.  Nowadays, I have a cat.  My "little boy", Monkey, and as goofy as it sounds, no matter how dark and sad and depressed I get, I will never do anything malicious to myself, because I have him and he depends on me.  I have nephews, too.  About the only family members that I actually like on a personal level, but it's my boy, Monkey that keeps me inside the lines of sanity.

It's not out of some kind of morbid curiosity that I think about the suicide, but more of a need to understand.  The human body, as a whole, possesses a natural need to survive.  It does it without thought.  As natural as it is for your heart to pump blood or your lungs to inhale oxygen, so is the will to survive.  So to wrap a belt around your neck then lean into it in order to choke yourself out...  I can't fathom it.  It ranks up there with my fear of drowning.  I can't wrap my head around the mechanics required to succumb to that.

Depression is a helluva thing.  I don't know why I suffer from it.  I don't take medication for it, nor have I sought out any sort of counselling to solve it.  It's something that I live with every day...  It's another fact of life.  Like asthma, my sore broken back, or my rugged good looks.  They're all a curse, but it's what makes me... well... ME!

My heart is broken, today.  Saddened at what the world has lost.  Just like the years that have followed 9/11, where I can't look around without remembering how things were before we'd lost our innocence, I'm not going to be able to look around at all the absurdity and comedy in the world without thinking about Robin Williams.

"You're only given one little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it."

- Robin Williams -

August 11th, 2014 - The world lost something truly special.  The important thing, though, is to learn from this tragedy.  See you on the other side, Oh Captain, My Captain.

Discovery Jumps The Shark, Again

Today marks the official start of Shark Week on Discovery Channel.  The beginning of August, every year for the last 27 years, has been marked with tradition.  Droves of people, all over the world, numbering in the millions, sit with eyes glued to their television sets, prepared to ooh and ah at the beauty and the marvels of all that is shark-related.  Learning important facts that sharks aren't the mindless eating machines that we were falsely lead to believe with the onslaught of the Jaws movies, but that they are actually intelligent and beautiful creatures on a whole.  Am I willing to climb into the chilly waters with these magnificent creatures? F*ck no!  However, I might be more easily convinced to do so from all that I've learned over the years.

In the nearly three decades that Shark Week has been in existence, there's been a plethora of documentaries covering a wide span of topics, all shark-related.  Documentaries included spotlighting the wide variety of sharks, the different regions where sharks exist, the diet of sharks (which may still surprise people, doesn't include humans); as well as the continuing improvement in the science and devices used to study sharks.

Survivor stories of shark attacks, also contribute largely to the documentaries included in the famed event dedicated to sharks, not to mention, memorials of those who weren't fortunate to survive shark attacks.  Honourably so, however, whether people overcame their injuries or not, the shark was seldom demonized.

Shark Week has also brought the malicious slaughter of sharks, via the practice of Shark Finning, in which some countries, like Japan, capture sharks by the f*cking thousands, slice off their fins, then toss the (still living) remains into the ocean, where the sharks, unable to swim, die a painful death by drowning.  If it wasn't for the fact that most of the Japanese culture knows a martial art of some sort, I'd love to punch a few of those motherf*cker's in the face and toss them overboard..! (Too much?)  I digress...

Celebrities from all facets of entertainment and science....  They've all gotten involved in one way or another, over the years.  Most of them, have been under contract with Discovery Channel already, so there wasn't much of a stretch, although I question the need to have the American Chopper guys involved.  Other Discovery alum includes Mike Rowe (Dirty Jobs) and the Mythbusters, Jamie Hyneman and Adam Savage who also contributed by doing a couple Mythbuster episodes looking into the validity of stunts spotlighted in the Jaws movies.  Those episodes were fascinating.

Most recently actor Adam Samberg (SNL, Brooklyn 99) "hosted", as is actor Rob Lowe (Outsiders, West Wing) doing so, this year.  Comedian, Josh Wolf, is reprising his role as host on Shark After Dark, a show that spotlights and discusses the day's shark documentaries.  Years ago, TV's Craig Ferguson was also a contributor to the "American holiday", by swimming with Caribbean reef sharks of the coast of the Bahamas.  In the documentary, Ferguson joked (halfheartedly) at the premise of being bitten or even devoured by sharks, only to exit the water, emotionally expressing his impression of  his overall experience. "That was fantastic! They are so beautiful." he said, "They're like really big dogs, aren't they?"

It's incredible the wide spectrum of subject matter that this one ocean creature, has garnered over the nearly three decades that Shark Week has existed.  So it is no wonder that the subject may be depleting.  After all, as remarkable as watching Great White Sharks breach the depths, off the coast of South Africa, flying sharks, I'm sorry to say, gets a little boring after a while.  I suspect that our insatiable appetite, as a society, for bigger, badder and more incredible feats and facts, is why Discovery Channel has taken to producing "Docudramas" in an effort to maintain the appetite for all that is shark-related.  Last year, they kicked off Shark Week with the airing of "MEGALADON: The Monster Shark" last year.  The network portrayed it as an actual documentary and admittedly, I was completely enthralled with the program, believing every fact that was presented.  Every interview and every photograph.  I trusted it's every valid claim, wholeheartedly, until the very end, when the show posted that the preceding program was a complete work of fiction.  Needless to say, I was devastated.  It felt like a close and trusted friend had lied to be.  I was completely betrayed by Discovery.  I continued to watch the programming for the week, but because the network had pulled the wool over everyone's eyes with that virtual lump of bullshit, my enjoyment paled in comparison to previous years.  In the months since, I've managed to work past all that, so when commercials began airing for SHARK WEEK 2014, I began to get excited again.

Tonight (08-10-14), I tuned into the first show, "Air Jaws: Fin of Fury", which is a sequel to last year's "Air Jaws: The Search for Colossus".  The program spotlights the continuous (two-year) search for a massive and aggressive Great White that had completely disappeared from the waters off Seal Island in South Africa.  It was and again, a wonderful and fascinating documentary about searching the world's oceans for a single, albeit monstrous, shark.

Immediately following that, another new show, "SHARK OF DARKNESS: Wrath of Submarine", aired.  I read the description provided by my cable box, and the premise sounded intriguing.  It was a docudrama telling the story of the inexplicable sinking of a whale watching boat, that resulted in many of it's riders becoming prey for a 30-plus foot shark, known in the vicinity as Submarine.  Within in seconds of it's start, a warning placard was displayed that explained that the following program is produced for entertainment purposes only.  EPIC FAIL!!!!

Again, Discovery is attempting to blow smoke up our asses.  Producing a telecast of complete fiction.  Ironically, enough, the subject Submarine IS an actual shark reported in the area of South Africa, although it was only after a menagerie of local reporters fabricated the initial story.  They placed a seed into the media to see how gullible people were, and proved that people, as a whole, are dumb as shit.  Even after the prompt at the beginning of SHARK OF DARKNESS, there were live tweets shared on the screen and people were expressing how they would love to witness this shark firsthand.  F*ck me, people are f*cking stupid!  I guess I, or we, should all be gracious that Discovery chose to post the disclaimer at the beginning, rather than the end.  That saved me two hours of wasted time.

Science continues to evolve.  Everyday there are new discoveries being learned.  I don't know why the Discovery Channel can't produce factual programming that investigates that.  Why Discovery Channel can't teach us all, further, rather than spending millions to produce this drivel in an attempt to trick it's audience. Hopefully, Discovery will come to change their ways, getting back to the meat of the matter and steer away from what might ultimately become SHART WEEK!!

Letter to Mr. Ant

Dear Mr. Ant,

Out of all the lovely homes in the surrounding area of my house, you've chosen mine to inhabit.  Although, it has been quite a lovely year, thus far, weather-wise, you've taken up in the walls of my downstairs bathroom.  Whether you are here of your own volition or have conglomerated here as a member of your extensive family, I feel I should thank you, in part, for choosing my home to infest over everyone else's.  So thank you...., I guess.

However, I have a cat and he, alone, is more than a hand full.  Whether it's his constant whining and complaining or policing his mischievous character or repeatedly having to clean up his vomit, I have my hands full.  I'm not looking for anymore roommates.  

Even though, in all honesty, anytime I've stumbled across your masses creeping and crawling about my bathroom and lower living room, you all do seem fairly self-sufficient, of which I do appreciate.  However, in the end, you and your kind are not welcome in my house.

I thought you and your friends would've gotten the idea that you're not welcome, when you came across the slaughtered corpses of your mates.  Poisoned and (hopefully) experienced a painful and horrible death.  If I were taking up residence somewhere, uninvited, then came across some of my friends and family lying dead out in a field, whether I knew the reason behind their death's or not, I'd get the f*ck outta there.  Of course, I am a brilliant mind whose brain is not the size of a microbe.

Or the time I came across hundreds of you hugging the wall of my bathroom, engaged in some kind of "outdoor" festival, and I scooped you all up and flushed you.  That was a good time.  For me, anyway.  Not so much for your friends, I suppose.  But who doesn't enjoy a nice pool party?

Clearly reasoning doesn't appeal to your kind.  I know that despite all the f*cking poison I've put down you f*ckers aren't taking the f*cking hint.  So I've decided to allow you all to stay.... On one condition.

Using the aforementioned toilet, I've decided to use it to both of our advantages.  In addition to the poop and pee that is deposited in it on a daily basis, I've also incorporated it into this scenario.  Every time I come across one of you little motherf*ckers, I'm going to scoop you up and dump you into the toilet.  Admittedly, the bowl won't always be filled with just cool clean water, because let's face it, if I'm coming into that room, there's a predetermined reason behind it.  However, if you survive, you'll be all the more strong and will better appreciate your survival.

I will be scooping your skinny little asses into the bowl.  Poop, pee, or all of the above, I will flush the toilet.  Now.., your part of this plan is to swim against the current.  Swim against the swirling stormy waters, and IF (or when) you pull yourselves out, you are more than welcome to stay in my house for the rest of your natural lives.  Granted all you little f*ckers look alike, so there may be a time or two or always that you'll find yourself scooped up again and thrust back into the bowl.  In other words, get the f*ck outta my house!!!

The Peaceful Sound of Nature

Early this morning, I awoke to the peaceful sound of a babbling brook flowing nearby.  The process was slow, hearing the rushing water passing over the smoothed stones in the distance.  Then almost like magic, the soothing gurgling sound drew nearer.  It felt almost like I was being carried on a puffy cloud, floating over the landscape to the river's edge.  I've not felt so relaxed in a very very long time.

Finally, when I opened my eyes, I discovered I was not surrounded by the lush greenery of the forest, but by the bland naked walls of my bedroom.  My cat sleeping nearby, his slumber obviously also disturbed by the burbling sounds, as he looks about the room confusedly.

"Rubble, rubble, rubble!"  The rippling cackle dissects the silence.

"Shit! There it is again!" I think quietly to myself.

"Rubble, rubble, rubble!"

It's my stomach growling.  Time to get up and feed the beast!

The Zombie Apocalypse

A short while ago, I watched a "science" show on a zombie-like virus that would eventually infect the entire world.  The show was on a science channel and spoke mostly of "what ifs", but much of the speculation was based in actual science.  The premise, essentially, began with a breaching whale, of all things, that lands atop a small sailing vessel.  The survivors are beaten up pretty bad, but are rushed to a nearby hospital.  Unfortunately, their injuries are far too severe and they succumb soon after arriving.  Unbeknownst to medical staff, however, is the unseen virus that exists.  Acquired from the whale that struck their boat, the two victims of this maritime tragedy are also infected with the rabies virus.  Even though they are deceased, medical staff contract the deadly virus and soon begin showing symptoms.  At this point of the science program, the pandemic really begins to snowball.  Eventually, the world is over run and humanity, as we know it today, is lost to the annals of time.  The program was a thing of pure fiction.  A form of accepted adult entertainment, but real enough to leave a grain of sand in the back of your mind, just large enough to make you think.., "What if?"  

Fast-forward to today, where there's word of a major viral outbreak in West Africa.  Formerly known as 'Zaire ebolavirus', it's now known simply as the Ebola Virus.  (Zaire was dropped, I suspect, because the stigma of a deadly virus really hurt the tourism of Zaire.)  Without getting into the thick of it, the virus, in it's simplest of terms is: It begins with an onset of influenza-like stage which includes symptoms like chills, sore throat, headaches and pain in the joints, muscles and chest.  The central nervous system is majorly disrupted with the development of confusion, seizures and sometimes even coma.  And that's the mild part.  Eventually, lesions form on the skin, followed by major bruising and eventually hemorrhaging.  The actuality of the disease is much more in depth than this, obviously.  Suffice it to say, it's not a cool way to be taken out in this world.  Having a vending machine fall on you after it steals your quarter.  Now THAT is a way to die, my friend.  Currently, according to Wikipedia (where I obtained this delightful description) says that there is no known cure for this affliction.

So I'm laying in bed this morning, sleeping very lightly with the TV on in the background.  I have it set to a news channel and I repeatedly hear a story about two aid workers in West Africa who contracted the deadly disease and are now in peril.  They've been quarantined in Africa, but are now being sent back to America for treatment.  According to the news story, the Ebola virus has never existed in the western hemisphere, but soon it will.  The patients are being flown, one-by-one, under triple layered protection, to somewhere around Atlanta, Georgia. (This is the same area where "The Walking Dead" takes place.  Coincidence?) (Yes, actually.)  Each patient will be on a gurney surrounded by a protective plastic tent, which will exist inside another protective plastic tent.  Caregivers will be wearing hazmat-like suit and treatment throughout the transit will be given via thick rubber gloves that are at the side of the initial protective plastic tent.  Great care and attention has been given to the seriousness of this situation and anyone who is familiar with horror and tragedy movies, you know that so much attention to safety and prevention is just aching for failure.  Someone's going to tear their suit, be too ashamed to admit to it, rush home to kiss their wife and play with the kids and eventually, everyone in the greater Atlanta-area are f*cked, and eventually even me, way up here in Saskatchewan is going to be inflicted...  Selfish motherf*ckers...  But I digress.

I'm sure the reasoning behind why these people were volunteering in West Africa was of noble intent, but it's unselfish acts like this that are usually the most selfish.  Just because they wanted to stand out as being "heroic", supplying aid and rescue to those unlucky enough to be born into a shitty life, these people may eventually cause the end of the world.  With so much aid to be given at home, why fly half way around the world, placing the rest of us in jeopardy?

When asked why these two aid workers deserved to be given treatment in America, it was stated it was because they were Americans and because they gave so selflessly to help those in need.  I call bullshit!  By bringing them back to America, you're stating that the level of medicine in West Africa pales in comparison to that of Western civilization.  Of course, this IS true.  I doubt dancing around a fire, chanting incoherent rants will rid anyone of the hiccups let alone the Ebola virus.  At the same time, though, by bringing them home, you're proving to the world, that being an American is superior to everything and everyone else.  Maybe that's true.  I'm not to judge the validity of that belief.

The Ebola virus is contracted by contact with infected monkeys, fruit bats and pigs.  How someone comes in contact with two of these three things, is beyond me.  Pigs, I understand, because bacon is f*cking awesome.  Fruit bats confuse me.  They are only a few inches long and what fruit they eat, is hardly enough sustenance for even the hungriest of Africans.  I mean, what the f*ck is one grape going to do for ya?  As for coming in contact with infected monkeys...  You'd think people would've gotten the hint after catching AIDS from these motherf*ckers back in the 80s.  Now people are f*cking them again?  Is the gene pool so limited in Africa, that men have to take to the jungles for some sexy time with promiscuous monkeys?

It's written that to contract the Ebola virus, one needs to come in contact with the bodily fluids of an infected creature.  Blood, mucous & urine.  Semen, I've read is another example...  Other examples include, contact with contaminated medical equipment. (It's like nobody knows they can boil water with fire to sterilize this shit!)  The lack of usage of protective clothing like gloves or surgical masks.  The virus is not an airborne contagion, but you get some dumb motherf*cker sneezing in your face, and you're f*cked.  And given my, albeit limited, exposure to foreigners, considerations like "covering their mouths or noses in the event of coughing or sneezing, is not among their strong points".  I caught many colds from face-to-face conversations with the Filipino folks I used to work with.

The outspoken Donald J. Trump tweeted out a couple of comments via his Twitter feed, and though he's full of shit most of the time, I have to agree with him on these points he's made.

1. "Ebola patient will be brought to the US in a few days - now I know for sure that our leaders are incompetent. KEEP THEM OUT OF HERE!"
   
2. "Stop the ebola patients from entering the US. Treat them, at the highest level, over there. THE UNITED STATES HAS ENOUGH PROBLEMS!"

They're both valid points.  Why tempt fate by bringing this shit to North America.  You're just putting the rest of us in jeopardy.  Why punish us for doing the right thing and minding our own f*cking business?  You watch.  Some kind of shit will go down.  No one will own up to it right away.  The virus will get out.  People will die.  The government will label the virus some other media-savvy name, so as to divert attention away from the strain being identical to the Zaire ebolavirus.

I think this statement sums it up the best...

The Los Angeles Times reported that sixty-three percent of American families are now considered dysfunctional. Good. 'Cause that means when Armageddon really happens, thirty-seven percent of this population is going to "lose their minds". "Oh my God, the world is over!"  Us sixty-three percent?  We're going to go, "Hey... there's no one watching the Lexus dealership!  We're going to the Apocalypse with leather and a CD changer!"

- Christopher Titus, Norman Rockwell Is Bleeding