Whispers, Good and Bad

For the first time in my life, I think I overheard a battle between good and evil.  Between the angel that rides on my right shoulder versus the devil that inhabits my left.

I stopped by the grocer on my way home today and as I delivered my emptied cart to the corral, I noticed a large black purse in another empty cart.  Without hesitation, I grabbed the leather satchel, aimed on taking it inside for safe keeping.  That's when I heard his voice for the very first time in my life.

The existence of the devil and angel atop our shoulder has been a popular plot device for centuries, drawing more attention in modern times through cartoons and television.  The devil and the angel have been seen duking it out on The Simpsons, Tom & Jerry, Married With Children, and many other popular stage and screen representations, including Disney's Emperor's New Groove and 2012's Cloud Atlas which showed Hugo Weaving playing both roles as good and evil, whispering suggestions into Tom Hanks' ear.

None of the above is what I heard.  It was just whispers of self-consciousness.  On one hand, it's been a very rough year, with very little coming in, by way of an actual income, on the other hand, I'm not that big of an asshole that I'd steal just for a few bucks.

As usual, goodness prevailed over evil, my angel kicked the devil's ass, once again and through the awkward glances and snickers of misinformed self-centered individuals, I carried that purse into the store and turned it in.  I admit that I was curious to look inside, if for no other reason, than to see just how much of a hero I was going to be for this absent-minded person who left it behind.  In then, I didn't.  I handed it in to the grocer's customer service and departed the store, content on a good deed done, even though no one will ever know what I'd done.

Merry Christmas!!

Breathless

STAR WARS: The Force Awakens, is probably the most highly anticipated film of this century.  The hype for this movie has been steadily building since it was announced that it was going into production.  The excitement really hit it's pinnacle in the past couple of months, as the stars have begun promoting the film.  Everyone has caught a scorching case of Star Wars Fever, for which there is no cure, but a $12 movie ticket.  I'm not usually one to get all caught up in the excitement, like this, but I have to admit that I was infected, too.  So when the opportunity arose to attend the very first showing, the day before the official movie release, I leaped at the chance.

I promise to not reveal any SPOILERS, in this blog entry, except that which is the obvious.  This film is F*CKING SPECTACULAR!!  For me, personally, it meant so much more than just another chapter in a story of science fiction. It was a revisit to a younger, happier self that was long lost to the annuls of time.

Last night I listened to a podcast where Kevin Smith describes the overwhelming experience he had when Star Wars VII director, JJ Abrams invited him to the set at the Pinewood Studios in Great Britain.  Smith describes walking onto the set, which was by his estimate, about three football fields in size, and the entire area was decked out with practical scenery.  Everything was actually built, all the buildings were real.  Smith remarked that he walked up to one of the central structures and knocked his fist against it, smiling that he would remember months later when he'd watch the film, that he had knocked on that wall.

Smith had arrived just in time to witness the filming of one of the movie's epic battle scenes.  He stood with JJ Abrams watching the carefully choreographed action unfold on eight video screens.  Smith comments in his podcast, the irony of literally being a stones throw away from his childhood heroes and watching all the action on video monitors.

After calling "CUT!" and ending the scene, JJ engaged in pleasantries with the Clerks director, before asking his assistant if she'd taken Kevin to Studio M, yet.  She said she hadn't and the two were immediately dispatched to do so..  Smith's description after this is what I identified with the most.  He walked into the dark studio, not knowing what to expect and in an instant, the lights come on and he sees "her".  It's the Millennium Falcon.

From working in the movie industry for over twenty years, Kevin admitted a little bias, knowing how sets can appear to be real, even though most are just artificial facades propped up from behind.  It was when he was invited to actually step aboard the Falcon, is when he realizes that Abrams had an actual Millennium Falcon.  With every step he took, he reverted back to his youth, finally stopping on that seven year old who sat in the theater with his family and looked upon those infamous words: A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away.  Kevin admitted that he was overwhelmed with joy, so much that he was moved to tears.

I had a similar experience from the moment the dark theater lit up with those epic words written in gold: STAR WARS Episode VII.  Although, I wasn't overwhelmed to the point of crying, I did recognize the significance of what I was witnessing.  I knew from that point forward, I wasn't just watching a movie.  I was experiencing a historic moment.  My eyes were among a sliver of those who had ever watched the film.  I was completely and fully invested.  In fact, so excited, was I, that I never actually read any of the words scrolling across the screen.  I was, instead, lost in the magic of STAR WARS.  By the time I saw the first stormtrooper walk into the scene, I was that little boy again, staring up at the screen, in awe.

It goes without saying, this is a MUST SEE movie.  Everyone will experience it differently.  Some will laugh and applaud.  Some may be moved to tears, just as Kevin Smith was on the day he visited the set.  Some may simply experience the movie.  STAR WARS has meant something different to everyone throughout the last thirty-eight years, and it's nice to see that it will continue to do so for another thirty-eight years.

HAGGARD: 19 Years of Hard Living

With every breath that is expelled, we draw closer to the release date of this decade's most anticipated motion picture, STAR WARS: The Force Awakens.  The masses are overwhelmed with excitement and panic.  What if it doesn't live up to the six predecessors?  What if it sucks?  I can say with good faith, that with director J.J. Abrams at the helm, the seventh chapter of the Star Wars saga, will be legen... wait for it...... dary!!

I'm sure that many are doing exactly what I've been doing over the past week, which is watching the first Star Wars movies in succession.  I have the first three securely under my belt.  This time around, I'm not making the mistake that I've done in the past, which was to watch all six back-to-back-to-back.  Dedicating an entire day to watching all movies.  For someone who's as critical as I am, this is a huge mistake.  There are so many holes in the first three movies, which creator George Lucas filmed decades after the fourth, fifth and sixth "episodes", that enjoying them purely for entertainment is impossible.  Timelines don't match up, nor do some B-story lines, not to mention the poor execution of casting.  The last, which I just noticed on this most recent pass on Episode III: Revenge of the Sith.

The close of Episode III shows Anakin Skywalkers bride, Padme, giving birth to twins, Luke and Leia.  For increased safety from the Sith, the children are separated, to be raised apart.  Obi Wan Kenobi (played by Ewan McGregor), is instructed by Yoda to place Skywalker's son, Luke with his Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen, on Tattoine.  There, Kenobi volunteers to live in solitude, while keeping a watchful eye over young Luke, as he matures.

A dry climate, two suns looming overhead and sand getting into everything, life on Tattoine must be rough.  The added stress must expedite the aging process.  In Episode IV: A New Hope, the estimated age of Luke is about nineteen years old.  Actor Mark Hamill exuded all the traits of a frustrated and rebellious young Luke Skywalker, but the years weren't so kind to Obi Wan or Skywalker's aunt and uncle.

Nineteen years on Tattoine will add about fifty years to your complexion.  By the time the rebellion is roaring in it's infinite glory, Obi Wan is a decrepit old man, barely able to walk, though he's still pretty handy with a light saber and still young enough to engage in one more adventure across the galaxy.  As for Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, the years had left them weak and feeble, and no match for the Imperial Stormtroopers when they came a callin' in search of those two troublesome droids.

Of course, STAR WARS: A New Hope was released in 1977, when Ewan McGregor was just six years old.  Getting an acclaimed actor like Sir Alec Guiness to star in a little know film called, "Star Wars", was a huge catch for George Lucas, who like the studio helping to produce the movie, never knew what a Goliath the franchise would eventually become.  I'm sure that Lucas had no comprehension of a sequel, at that time, let alone two trilogies telling this confusing story.

Reports and speculation on the new flick are coming out in droves as the release date draws closer.  December 18th, next Friday, all theories and speculations will be answered, and hopefully, with fingers crossed.  Like I stated before, I have complete faith in J.J. Abrams and I'm sure this installment of Star Wars will being larger than life.  My only real concern is Alvin & the Chipmunks: The Road Chip.  It is set to open on the same day, offering up some real competition to Han Solo, Chewbacca and the rest of the gang.  I'm curious as to who will take the Box Office record, this weekend...?

Hand-Free

"Look ma!! No hands."  It's a weird thing to pop into my head, considering I was urinating at the time.  However, it is, what it is, and it's the line that popped in my head as I exited the stall in the men's washroom.  The place was atrocious.  If it were a pig sty, it would be a vast improvement, but calling it this, would be detrimental to pig sties everywhere.

Having a shy bladder at the best of times, I'm always regulated to going into the stalls.  Even though the ambient noise is enough to discourage urination of any kind, having a physical barrier to separate me from the rest of the clattering people, is just enough to relax and entice me into going.  Public washrooms are often a freakin' horror show, but the restroom at public functions like a convention  or in the case earlier tonight, a music concert, the bathroom is absolutely catastrophic.

After the close of the show, I rushed into the washroom and immediately found a vacant stall.  What met my gaze on the other side of that door was horrific.  It was as though an Islamic Jihadist had blown themselves up using a piss bomb.  There was urine everywhere.  On the seat.  On the floor.  On the toilet paper dispenser, thus the roll was drenched and poofy from moisture expansion.  There was even urine dripping down the walls.  In fact, I believe the only place that never got hit by any piss, was the inside of the bowl.  It's no wonder women find men disgusting in the bathroom.

Perhaps it's unmanly to admit, but I sit (at home) to use the toilet.  Reason being, splash-back.  If you go to any household where there's either a majority of males or where the man is the lone occupant, chances are you're going to see dried piss on the outside of the bowl.  This is from splash-back and it's f*cking disgusting.  I won't have it in my house.  Nope.  No way.  No how.

Outside of the house is a different matter all together.  I refuse to sit my ass down on a public toilet unless it's a dire emergency.  In addition to my refusal to sit down, I also refrain from using my bare hands.  It's all elbows and feet, and I've gotten pretty god damned good at it, too.  "Look ma!!  No hands!!"

"What would possess someone to piss everywhere except in the bowl?" I wondered to myself, "It's no wonder women find men f*cking disgusting."  It was at this point.., mid-stream.., into the toilet bowl, I might add, that I thought of this instrument.  Like the laser sights currently available for a vast number of handguns and assault weapons, it would seem beneficial to men, if there were a way to apply that science to their dicks, enabling them the ability to no longer spray down everything except the inner sanctum of the toilet bowl.  The laser sights, seem to come in various sizes so there should be a guidance system for just about every man on earth.  Given how much people like to play with guns, a laser sight would give them ample opportunity to play with....  Uh... Never mind.

The Thin Line Between Insanity and Motivation

If I may, I'd like to move aside and address a subject of a more serious note.  I'm at my wits end and I don't know what else to do.  I've tried to be reasonable, but these little monsters can't be reasoned with and I'm slowly beginning to lose my f*cking mind.

As some may know, after nearly a year of unemployment, the only job that I was able to procure was that of a school bus driver.  At the time, I had just about as many naysayers as I had support in my decision to accept this vocation.  Oddly (to most normal people, but not to myself) it was my immediate family who told me I never had the temperament for the position.  That I would lose my cool with the children and go off like some kind of madman.  Screaming and swearing like a lunatic sailor.  I know myself better than 99.9999% of everyone around me and I can say with all certainty, this would never happen, nor will it.  I will admit, however, that there have been incidents.., in the past..., where, YES, I went off on a deserving individual.  Case and point, that fellow a few years ago who disrespected Remembrance Day, saying it was a scam because poppies are a major contributor to the narcotic known the world over as, Heroin.  I lost it on the motherf*cker and I'd do it again, if needed be.  With the children, on the other hand, never.  No matter how f*cking stupid some of their antics are, I wouldn't do that.

Growing up, I was submersed in an environment that provided very little by way of emotional support.  Any dream I had, was quickly dashed as being unrealistic or impossible for someone like me to achieve.  (Thanks mom & dad.)  I'm not making excuses for my limitations in this life, but merely making an example of how I didn't want to be towards the next generation of children.  Whether they be mine, nieces and nephews or anyone's children.  One of the worst things anyone can bear witness to is seeing the light of hope and wonderment fade from a child's eye.  I've seen dreams dissolve in the mirror on more than one occasion in my lifetime.

Driving a school bus is fairly stressful.  It's not the fifty or sixty kids that ride, but the fact that I'm driving something as large as some small bungalows down the street.  From about six months to about the age six years old, my family (mom, dad, sister & I) lived in a small mobile home.  That trailer was about the same size as the school bus that I currently drive.  Couple that with the strains of asshole drivers who constantly cut me off, flip me the bird and just plain drive erratically around me, there's a lot to keep my concentration.  I have seven mirrors in addition to the front windshield, which the instruction manual indicates I cannot maintain a gaze of more than a couple of seconds.  Add in the commotion of fifty or sixty kids (sometimes more) and you have the ingredients for a catastrophe.  I, somehow, manage.  As stressful as all that is, I find it fairly easy to do.  What I find waning on my sanity, is the....  I don't even know how to describe it, other than to label it for exactly what it is.  Stupidity bullshit!!!

It's narrowed down to about three or four boys.  All the girls on the bus, know how to behave.  They break the rules by eating, which is strictly not allowed, but as many times as I've explained why they can't do it, they all know my stand on the subject which is simply:  IF YOU CHOKE AND DIE, IT'S NOT MY PROBLEM!!  Of course, we all know that if someone is to choke and die, it's DEFINITELY going to be my problem, but they don't need to know that.  The boys on the other hand...  Driving me f*cking insane!!

Some days, there's one or two who like to talk about their "little boy parts", which I've explained is unacceptable, but that goes in one ear and out the other.  There's been talk of pooping on one another or throwing said poop at people, mainly girls.  Or what I find to be the most intolerable, the plain nonsensical noises.

Tonight, I had to deal with fog, icy roads, asshole drivers, an overheating bus and six children screaming at the top of their lungs, the words "bub, bub, bub"!!  Repeatedly, for eighty percent of the run, "bub, bub, bub".  If it were in unison, it'd almost be tolerable, but it was like a war.  One kid would shout out the name of another, repeatedly until the kid would answer, "What?!"

"Bub, bub, bub, bub, bub, bub...!!!"

"Quiet down!" I'd say sternly.  There'd be a short reprieve, then "Hey H_____! Bub, bub, bub, bub, bub...!!"  .....Well God damn!! Seconds later, they'd all chime in, once again, the insanity returning li like an overpowering avalanche of noise and destruction.

Before letting them off at their stop, I spoke with the culprits, sternly explaining that the bus is not a playground.  That the foolishness that they do on the playground cannot be played out on the bus.  That their excessive noise is very distracting and could cause us to have an accident.  As I looked at the silent group staring back at me I knew my words really hit home...  Literally.  They went in one ear and out the other, echoing off the walls of the bus.  Boys can be so God damned stupid, sometimes.

I'm at my wit's end.  I don't know what else to do.  After dropping the kids at their last stop, I was steaming.  I was so frustrated with the entire scenario that it finally gave me that kick in the pants that I needed.  I know what I need to do now.  The answers are so clear.  Like a crystal hanging in the sunlight, it's light appearing so vividly in all it's colourful splendor.  This insanity is the motivation I need to commit to writing the exams to get those other licenses that I need to get out of this whole school bus driving bullshit.  I like most of the kids.  I really do.  Most of them are great.  It's just the two or three that are pissing me off enough to make me wanna leave.  I'm going to write those tests next week.  Wish me luck!!

X-Bow

According to Wikipedia, the crossbow is a type of weapon based on the bow, consisting of a horizontal bow-like assembly mounted on a stock, which shoots projectiles called 'bolts' or 'quarrels'.  The crossbow, as it's come to be known, has played a significant role throughout history, especially in the greater European and Asian continent, as well as the Mediterranean region.

The traditional bow and arrow has been a common tool since the dawn of recorded history, which required considerable strength and skill to master.  Comparatively, the crossbow possessed much of the same accuracy, but required much less training and expertise.  In ancient and medieval times, the bowmen were considered to be of a separate and superior caste, while just about anyone could be drafted to use the crossbow.

In the modern day, the crossbow, like it's cousin, has transformed and evolved many times, still as common and popular as ever.  Today, it is used primarily in sport and hunting, and with the popularity of The Walking Dead's Daryl Dixon, played by Norman Reedus, a whole new interest in the crossbow has been sparked.

The crossbow has always proven it's worth throughout the annals of time and I'm certain it will continue to do so, long into the future, whether there's a zombie apocalypse or not.  Where it seems to be a useless weapon, in my humble opinion, is sometime long long ago, in a galaxy far far away from our own.

In the Star Wars universe, Wookiees were a civilization advanced enough to have developed modern tank-like weapons and the ability for space travel, yet many of their hand-to-hand combat weapons in their arsenal, were still of a primitive-based design.  Bow staffs and spears were used in addition to laser blasters and cannons.  The crossbow is also a popular weapon used by the Wookiee armies.  It seems peculiar, to me, that the Wookiees had the foresight to develop stronger more destructive weapons, but still avoided casting aside their more inadequate weapons.  Though I never looked real close during the war on the Wookiee planet in Episode III, Revenge of the Sith, I'm sure there were still some Wookiee soldiers using rocks and stones.

The most prominent Wookiee of them all, Chewbacca, eventually left his home planet for a life of adventure, skipping around the galaxy with his companion, Han Solo, and though there were many instances that occurred in the time in between, the Wookiee never cast aside the main weapon of his people, the crossbow.

An impressive weapon to look at, intimidating in some instances, overall the weapon is bulky and inadequate.  For one, the crossbow (as it was used on the planet Earth) was designed for the ease of shooting ballistic projectiles like bolts and/or arrows.  In all of the times that I've bore witness to the use of the crossbow by Chewbacca, never once have I seen a quiver or any ballistics of any sort, being flung out by his trusty crossbow.  Hell! If you look closely at Chewies Bowcaster (pictured right), you'll notice that there's nowhere for a projectile, of any sort, to be launched from this outdated weapon.  

Filmmakers are in such a rush to design unique looking weapons for their sci-fi movies, that they set aside practicality for whatever looks cool and dangerous.  As stated before, Chewbacca's crossbow, looks impressive and even intimidating, to some degree, but it's better served as a museum piece.  An artifact worthy of spectacle and storytelling, rather than heated combat.  An outdated relic of ancient weaponry has no place in the  future, a long long time ago.

Man on a Mission

In a clear panic, I rushed through the thicket of people, crowded at the front of the store.  I was on the brink of exploding in my pants.  I definitely shouldn't have had that soda pop an hour before, but we always learn something via 20/20 hindsight.  Into the bathroom, past the urinals and straight into the handicapped stall.  I like the extra space.  The seat, thankfully, was already in the upright position, so I needn't balance it on the end of my foot.  I never use my hands for ANYTHING in a public restroom, especially in a f*cking Wal-Mart.

As I unzipped my heavy jacket in preparation for the task at hand, I passively glanced into the bowl , locking my gaze on the most peculiar sight I've ever had the misfortune to see in a public toilet.  I've mulled it over in my mind for the last hour, trying desperately to configure a way to successfully translate what I saw into comprehensible language and I believe I may have it.

In using the facilities at a restaurant, mall or big box store, we've all seen the remnant of the previous user or users.  That fecal muck that sticks to the side of the bowl that no amount of rushing water can successfully wash it away.  However, what I witnessed today was significantly different.  It was of a different viscosity and texture and colour, even.  The colour was a dull grey.  Thick and pebble-like in appearance.  Similar to celery seed, it looked like tiny beads of poo, spackled on the side of the bowl, like plaque on a rotting tooth.  "Ew," I whispered to myself, nose turned up with disgust, shocked by the appearance of this alien matter, "That motherf**ker is a sick puppy."

Granted just because it looks sick as f*ck, doesn't necessarily mean the contributing personality is also terminal.  I can speak from personal experience to initial shock of looking in the toilet expecting something impressive, and instead, discovering something off-putting, gross and concerning, only to remember that I had eaten beets a few hours before.  As to what might turn someone's poop into tiny grey balls of mystery? I don't know, nor do I wish to speculate.  My only goal in writing this blog, is to simply report the shit that I see.  Well, that and I wanted to use the simile that I thought of.

Despite my initial surprise, I never allowed it to deter me.  I was on a mission, after all.  A mission to avoid peeing my pants, and god damn it, crisis averted.  Mission accomplished!!

Don't Drink The Water

It used to be said: Don't drink the water.  That was in reference to anyone traveling south of the U.S. border.  Mexico was notoriously famous for having something wrong with their drinking water.  I can't remember what the end result was, as it's been decades since I've heard the reference, but I believe by drinking the water, you wind up with diarrhea.  That's pretty f*cked up, when the drinking water has a higher chance of giving you the runs, than the food.

California used to be a part of Mexico and though I've not been to The Golden State for a very long time, suffice it to say, if you're not drinking water out of a plastic recyclable bottle, you may be destined for some trouble.  Case and point: Miley Cyrus used to be a fine upstanding little girl.  A respectable role model for whom average little girls could look up to and aspire to be like.  She was a respectable celebrity with good morals, then all of a sudden... BLAM-O!! She's sticking out her tongue, shaking her ass and taking naked pictures of herself.  That wholesome little girl wasn't so wholesome, anymore.  I don't think "who*esome" is a word, but if it were, I'm sure we'd all be using it when referring to Miley Cyrus.

As a young teen, she portrayed the character Hannah Montana on the Disney program of the same name.  I've seen it.  It was mildly entertaining and silly, everything you'd expect a Disney show to be.  In an effort to shield herself from the hoards of screaming fans, Cyrus was a mild mannered, semi-unpopular teen, Miley Stewart, while in the evenings and weekends, she'd don a blonde wig, transforming her into Hannah Montana.  The character became so popular that in real life, Miley would entertain all over the world to crowds of screaming fans.  At the height of her popularity, even venturing out on a tour entitled: Hannah Montana Forever (pictured above left).

The fans knew Hannah Montana was Miley Cyrus, of course.  That was as obvious as Clark Kent being Superman, however I don't think Miley knew that, as the Disney series came to an end, so did the wholesome version of Miley Cyrus.  It's only been four years since Hannah Montana, but the crazy antics and public nudity of Miley Cyrus has become infamous.

Never failing to shock the public, Miley Cyrus, appeared just the other night, in Chicago, IL, performing a her songs, many of which came from the Hannah Montana era, wearing nothing but a strap-on dildo and a smile (pictured above right).  Even now, it was mentioned to me, yesterday, by a friend, that Miley Cyrus has announced that she'll be embarking on a new world tour, where it's suggested that she would not be the only person in attendance who would be naked, but that the crowds in attendance would be encouraged to be nude, as well.  "Is it going to be called, 'The Sausagefest Tour'?" I asked, believing that it will only be horny young boys and dirty old men, in attendance.  I would not want to be responsible for cleaning up the arena after that event.  The floor would be stickier than the floor of a movie theater.  I doubt, even a hazmat suit could protect anyone from...  Never mind.  I'm beginning to gross myself out...

So, take heed and be forewarned.  If you currently reside in Southern California or are planning to visit; DON'T DRINK THE WATER.  It made Randy Quaid go crazy.  Shia LeBeouf go mental.  Historically, it made Charles Manson go completely bat shit crazy-insane.  And it turned America's sweetheart, Miley Cyrus into a titty-flashing little skank.

HANNAH MONTANA FOREVER, huh?  Apparently our definitions of "forever", differ greatly...

Up Close & Impersonal

Tailgaters have always been a concern for me, and I'm not talking about the team fanatics who party and whoop it up in the parking lots of their favourite sports team's stadiums.  Although, I must admit that anyone willing to paint their bare chests in team colours for the minuscule chance of jiggling their poorly proportioned bodies for fifteen seconds of national fame, does make me question their sanity.

What does concern me, however, are the countless assholes who think it necessary (and safe) to follow the vehicle in front of them all too closely.  I see this occur all the time and it bugs me.  When it happens to me, then I get real concerned, spending more time watching them in my mirror than watching the traffic in front of me.  Having suffered a car accident years ago which left me with severe whiplash, to this day, when the mercury drops, the soreness and aggravation in my neck, rises.

In the summertime, the remedy is simple.  I tap my brakes and watch the fun ensue.  More times than not, the tailgater will slam on their breaks, sometimes even losing some control over their speeding vessel.  One fella, years ago, I remember, swerved and drove into the guard rail to his left.  I snickered as I continued my travels, while he stood outside his car, assessing the damage.  Did I feel guilty?  F*ck no!  If he hadn't been traveling so close, I would never have had the need to teach him this valuable lesson.

Winter time is another story.  It seems like, around here anyway, that even though we live with winter conditions four to five months out of the calendar year, people forget how to drive on snow and ice.  They think that the same rules of physics apply to them whether the ground is heated from the summer sun or frozen solid with black ice hidden under the freshly fallen snow.  This past Wednesday was the first snowfall of the year, and I heard about, at least, a couple dozen accidents, ranging from small fender benders to vehicles flipping over in the ditch.  I never heard about any fatalities, but I wouldn't be surprised if there were.  There's no doubt in my mind that half of these incidents were the result of assholes following too closely.

What really freaked me out, occurred about two hours ago.  I was traveling home, when a big rig, an eighteen wheeler semi-truck pulled in behind me in the left-hand lane, narrowly missing my rear bumper, no less.  The guy continued to tailgate me for the next couple of miles.  As I (dangerously) increased my velocity in an attempt to increase the distance between our two significantly different vehicles, he matched my speed, maintaining what I can only estimate was about two car lengths.  A semi-truck need A LOT MORE room than that to come to a complete stop, in an idea scenario.  On the other hand, traveling at 90km/h on ice, you may as well start writing my obituary, because I don't think the quality of life after being rundown by a Freightliner would be very enjoyable.

Back-and-forth, my eyes darted.  Back-and-forth, between my rear view mirror and the road in front of me.  Finally, I noticed that some reasonable distance between us had accrued, only to be filled with more vehicles.  Now, if it were necessary to slam on my brakes, I'd be rear ended by a Toyota, an F-150 and a motherf*cking Freightliner.  That'd really make my birthday next week a memorable one.

Finally, the lucky timing of traffic lights separated us for good, like conjoined twins going their separate ways at an amusement park.  I'm sure this won't be the last time, of course.  We're only two days into the cold stuff and I'm a fairly youthful fella, so I'm sure I have another thirty of forty years of assholes who can potentially injure, maim or kill me.  Crossing my fingers that I'll dodge that bullet, too.

A Ballistic Projectile Explodes

Every second Tuesday, I try to meet up with friends to go see a movie and tonight was no different.  I followed my usual route, which has become almost routine, always without incident, however, tonight I had me a small fright.

There was a good song on the radio, to which I had the volume turned up and I was singing along with the singer.  Images of what the words meant were scrolling across my imagination, but as vivid as my imagination tends to get, I never take my focus off the road in front of me, nor the streams of traffic around me.

Apparently, the woman in the car next to me, must've been deep in thought, too, only her mind and attention were miles away, as she signaled and turned into my lane, almost striking my front quarter-panel.  I laid on the horn quite heavily, and she slammed hard on the brakes, avoiding an inevitable collision.  At the same time, I noticed a small dog in the back seat, an innocent victim in all this, whose face struck her head rest quite firmly, before his little head disappeared behind the door.

I was upset at this woman's ignorance and failure to shoulder check, but I was more concerned for the little dog.  Happy-go-lucky, one moment, looking out the window at a strange and wondrous world, then hurt, maybe even injured or concussed, the next moment.  I have an affinity for animals, as most do, I'm sure, so my concern was on that dog.

For the remainder of my trek down this street before I had to turn off, took less than twenty seconds, but my thoughts of the pooch lasted long than that, stretching over the hours since, to this very moment.  The image of that dog's face being smooshed into the seat back, keeps replaying in my head, in slow motion.  The poor puppy.

I bet the stupid woman blamed me for her ignorance, which is fine, but worse yet, probably hasn't even acknowledged that her dog became a ballistic projectile, exploding behind her.  I hope he's okay.

No Apology Necessary

I was in need of a red marker, so after work I stopped by the Dollar Tree.  Having been there on several occasions before, I suspected they'd have what I need and they didn't disappoint.  As I scanned the aisle up and down, searching through the virtual sea of multi-coloured pens and markers, I failed to notice the small-statured tyke flanking me from the left.

He squeaked at the last moment, diverting my attention from the product hooks, down at him.  Sadly, it wasn't quick enough, as the little f*cker struck me hard in the shin with some kind of club, then scurried away around the corner.  The assault never hurt as much as the bewilderment of why a parent would, not only allow their child to run amok in a shopping venue, but also allow them to hit strangers?

"Seamus!" the mother called, with a thick Irish accent from the far end of the aisle, "Come back here at once, boy!"  I looked up at her, failing once more to hear the little bastard come up to me from behind, and strike me once more, this time on the back of my left leg, spinning me around to catch his eyeing me up for a third swing.

"Stop playing with that man and come here." his mother shouted again, never addressing the fact that her little tyrant had struck me twice and was vying for a hat trick.  "Really?"  I uttered in her direction, insinuating that we were not engaged in a game of folly, but in what could be construed as a violent exchange.

I heard a clank and looked back to see the little guy drop his golf club and reach out towards me like a hungry zombie craving fresh meat.  I flung my hands up and told him to get away from me.  I wasn't afraid of him, obviously, as I could crush him under my foot like the little pest that he was, but these days, you can't be too cautious when it comes to Stranger Danger.

Finally, grandma came and grabbed him by the arm, and drug him back to his mother's cart, leaving the small metal golf club behind.  I stared at them blankly, waiting for the apology that would never come.

If I were to be completely honest. the kid wasn't pasty and pale, nor was he named Seamus,  His family weren't of Irish decent, but actually appeared to be Middle Eastern.  The little boy was dirty and covered in filth and answered to Ahmed or something along those lines.  I don't wish to profile the family racially, but I can't help but wonder what the protocol is in that culture, where it's acceptable to assault a stranger in a store and no apologies are necessary?

The Inside Out Umbrella

Winter is encroaching upon us.  The temperatures dipping south of zero degrees Celsius, our mornings we're greeted with frosty windshields and sheer winds.  This morning was warmer than it has been, but the normally crisp mornings was replaced with a cold drizzle, mixed with periods of sleet and snow.

I was within the comforts of my warm vehicle, hot air blowing on the windshield and encompassing my face.  As I drove down the grey-coloured street, I glanced to my right, noticing a lone monstrous figure slowly cruising westward on the sidewalk.  Obviously too obese to make the trek on foot, they opted instead to do so using a motorized scooter.  In an attempt to reduce the soaking they would get from the weather pounding them in the face, they attempted to shield themselves with a solitary umbrella.  However, the winds, though not torrential, was still strong enough to turn their rain saving device, inside-out.

I know it's not polite or in good taste to laugh at those less fortunate than ourselves, but I couldn't help but let out a small chuckle.  Perhaps if the person was stricken with a valid handicap, the odds of my laughter would have been lessened.  I don't consider obesity to be an actual handicap and therefore, I have no feeling of guilt about laughing at the absurd sight.

Mustering Up A Shit Storm

"I shit myself!!"  Three words that no self-respecting individual would ever utter, unless, of course, it were true.  After all, why would anyone go to such lengths to lie about something so disgusting and heinous?  I guess I have no, or at the very least, very little self-respect, as I have told those three words to people and lied in doing so.

I have used this fib to get out of work, appointments and even plans with friends.  The believability in the lie is determined by how willing you are to provide graphic details.  Years ago, I was invited to a person's house to watch a movie.  There was going to be a whole bunch of people there that I didn't know and I didn't really feel like attending just to sit uncomfortably for a few hours in a cramped space.  Unfortunately, this was the kind of person that is difficult to say 'no' to.  They're always wanting a reason why.  Why?  Why?  Why?  So, as I was about to begrudgingly leave my house to go over, a light bulb shot off and I had the perfect plan.  I'd blow them off then simply tell them I had shit myself.  "They'll believe that, I'm sure," I thought to myself.

The next day I received a phone call and it was my friend on the other end.  Without even saying hello, they asked where I was and why I didn't bother coming over the night before.  "I had an accident." I said.  Before I was able to elaborate, they asked if I was okay and what had happened, speculating that someone had hit my vehicle.

"I shit myself."  I said.  There was an elongated pause, followed by a quiet, "What?"

I explained that I had been on my way to their house and while waiting at a red light, I had leaned to one side to squeak out a fart and the next thing I knew, I had nearly blown the back of my pants out with the nastiest wet fart in the history of farts.  There was another long pause, followed by a dishevelled "What?"  I took this as my cue to elaborate, stating that I had returned home to inspect Ground Zero and it wasn't a pleasant sight.

"You could've cleaned up and come over anyway." They said, not allowing something as small as a wet fart ruin the evening's festivities.  "No, I couldn't," I said, "it was really really bad."  I went on to explain how the shit had encompassed nearly all the real estate in and around my ass, some of which even mysteriously migrating around to the front.  "No." I retorted, "It was a complete obliteration.  I wound up having to throw my pants and underwear away.  Sucks, because they were a new pair of pants.  I don't think home insurance would cover a sewage backup that came out of my ass."

They totally bought the story, because like I said, no one with self-respect would ever lie about such a dramatic event, and being that the story was told over the phone, no actual evidence was ever necessary to provide.

Now I'm not saying that it hasn't ever happened.  I think everyone, at one time or another, has sharted in their pants.  Maybe nothing like the Shitanic that I just dramatized, but a little hint here or there.  This one time, I'd gotten struck with some kind of virus and diarrhea was an unfortunate factor to be dealt with.  I was running to the bathroom, literally, every seven to ten minutes.  I didn't dare gamble and break wind, for fear it was something much more evil.  I had to run to a medi-clinic to see what was afoot and get a doctor's not for work.  However, in doing so, I had to time my travels just precise enough that I wouldn't be stuck in traffic and that a washroom would be readily available.

This virus was nasty.  It got to the point where there was no more poop coming out.  It was just water... Or poop juice.  Like if someone were to squeeze a log of shit, the moisture that would run out, a veritable scorching shit juice from concentrate, that was setting my rectal area ablaze.  Every visit to the cool porcelain toilet, was met with fire shooting out my ass.  Whenever I see a flame thrower being used in an old World War Two movie, I'm viciously reminded of this period of time.

Treatment worked, but every time I felt gaseous in the days that followed, it was like Russian Roulette.  With every squeeze of the "trigger", I'd wince just in case there was an explosion.

This second account is very much true.  However, if you're like me and have very little self-respect and wish to get out of work this weekend, don't hesitate to use the story.  We've all been there and most people wouldn't lie about something so disgusting and heinous..., but I would.

Going Forth, Unsaliently

Every vehicle for (at least) the last fifty or sixty years, has possessed the little lever on the left hand side of the steering column.  It's an inconspicuous little lever that is within reach of our fingers, requiring very little movement, if any, from control of the steering wheel in our motor vehicle.  Some heavier equipment, has the same small device, only it's on the right hand side of the steering column.  It takes a little adjustment, at first, to get used to it, but eventually, it becomes second nature.

There's no question what this device does, as everyone who operates a motor vehicle, should be well aware of what it's function is.  Emphasis on should.  However, as much as people should be familiar with it, there's a growing faction who either doesn't have a f*cking clue what the lever does, don't f*cking care what the lever does, or is just too f*cking lazy to use the lever as it's supposed to be used.  The lever, of course, is the turn signal.

Clicking of the turn signal, lights indicator lights located on the front and rear of your motor vehicle.  The lights in front are amber in colour.  The lights in rear are either amber, as well, or red.  Whatever the case, the signals are on a flash relay, so as to better draw the attention of drivers around you.  This practice is to (hopefully) make your travels throughout traffic, easier and safer.

However, I've been witnessing more and more, on a daily basis, the lack of care or attention to those of us who properly use the signal light.  I especially notice it, everyday, as I'm in control of a very big rig.  A large vehicle that requires a lot of room in order to transfer from one lane into another or around corners.  I make sure to signal well in advance, clearing all my mirrors and ensuring I have the attention of drivers around me, before committing to any lane changes or turns.  This is very necessary, as if I crash into a small car, I'm almost guaranteed to crush them like an aluminum can under a heavy boot.  In the beginning, people were quite gracious, allowing me into lanes without much strife, but as of late, all consideration has been flung out the window like yesterday's bath water.  Nowadays, I'm finding more and more that people are misconstruing what the signals actually mean.

In the beginning, if I needed to move from the far right lane into the left turning lane, I could do so by signalling.  People would take note of the large saucer-like amber light flashing in their faces and slow down enough, allowing me to pass over in front of them.  Lately, it seems as though people take that same flashing amber light as an indication that they should speed up, not allowing me over to where I need to be.  This is equally true when I'm behind the wheel of my regular vehicle, as well.  Gotta make a right turn onto my street?  Nope!  Some dumb motherf*cker is already gleaming the sidewalk to get around me.  Or if I am lucky enough to make the corner onto my street, I'm required to make a sudden left signal, as my house is the second dwelling on the left hand side.  Believe it or not, on more than one occasion, when I make that quick left turn signal, people riding my rear bumper, make a sudden and dangerously rash swerve to the left, narrowly missing me and any traffic who may be approaching the intersection.

A little over a month ago, I approached my house from the south.  I was required to back into the driveway to load something into the box of my truck.  I slowed in front of my driveway.  Stopped.  Switched on the signal, indicating that I wished to move to my right.  I put the truck in reverse, causing my back up lights to come on, and proceeded to reverse.  As the front of my truck swung slightly out into the street, steering backward into my driveway, an impatient little minx, swerved around me, and clipped the front corner of my truck.  The inconsideration that someone was incapable of recognizing ALL of the proper indications of my intentions, drove me absolutely insane with anger.  Turns out she was f*cking hot, so I quickly calmed down, thinking quietly to myself how we, as old codgers, would laugh and tell our grandchildren how grandma and grandpa met.  I've never seen her, again.

Hot or not, people are growing more and more f*cking stupid when it comes to common practices like basic motor vehicle operations.  I'd say that people need to be retrained on proper motor vehicle operation, but then we'll hear from all the nutcases saying the government is trying to control us like they are with the gun control issue.

The Shartening

I was turning left onto 11th Street, the main artery that directs traffic from the outskirts of the city, back into the suburb known as Montgomery Place.  I was seated high atop a bus, a post which affords me the ability to see further than the common driver who is perched behind the wheel of their sub-compact or SUV.  As a bus driver, we are taught to look everywhere and see everything.  Alone, I have seven mirrors for my eyes to dart back and forth to, spending no more that a few fleeting seconds, ensuring that the perimeter of the bus is clear, and that's not mentioning the great windshield before me that allows me to see clear into the far horizon.

The coast-was-clear, so to speak when I proceeded into the intersection, the small patch of real estate that separates the southbound traffic from the north.  There was no traffic headed north, to I had ample time to clear my big rig without incident.  When I got about three quarters of the way through the intersection, is when I glanced down and saw him.

Before I began my trek across the road, I ensured that it was safe to do so.  The traffic around me was a white Toyota passing me in the far right hand lane, and a slow moving train of traffic headed up by a bright red Pontiac, approaching from 11th Street, the street I intended to turn onto.  There is a giant stop sign on the corner, so large that even Stevie Wonder himself, could see it.  Traffic has to stop, so this shouldn't be a factor for me.  However, as large as the stop sign is, this fellow in the red Pontiac, wasn't able to see it, as his face was buried in his cell phone.  I can only assume that what he was reading was an important text.  After all, nobody ever texts and drives, unless it's an emergency... I say sarcastically, tongue-in-cheek.

At the last moment, Charlie, looked up at the big yellow bus that was mere inches away from his front bumper.  I don't know if that was his name or not.  For driving in the manner he was, I'd just as quickly assume his name was Dumb-Fuck.  He looked up at the bus, jamming on his brakes, last second.  His gaze swung up to meet mine.  His eyes as wide open as they ever could be.  They looked like two eggs served sunny side up.  That's when I saw it.  That fleeting moment that is very rarely witnessed with the naked eye.  The minuscule second when, as an outsider, you know exactly what's happening on the inside of another.  The moment that Charlie, realized his impending demise, and shit his pants.  The literal "holy shit moment".  As an outsider, this moment is every bit as magical as witnessing a beautiful sunset off the beach of a tropical island or hearing the first cry of a newborn baby.  This is how magical this moment was for me.

We both escaped the scenario with out a scratch, although I suspect Charlie will have to throw away his obliterated underwear.  No amount of detergent is going to clean away that horrendous mess.  He, likely got nothing out of the experience, except the stench of stinky shit the rest of his trek homeward, but as for me...  The whole event took less than one or two seconds, but for me, the experience gave me five paragraphs of what I can only assume, is some of my best writing to date. 

The Hard Way

I love simplicity.  Why over complicate things, when just as much can be accomplished simply by pointing and clicking?  Lock in a cable, press a key and viola!  Shit just prints out.  No haggling or begging for shit to work.  It just does and I love it when it happens.

Sadly, things aren't as cut and dry as this.  I believe people call it "progress".  However, I've found that with every improvement, a level of imperfections and defects are sure to follow.  Take for instance, my cell phone.  I did a shit-ton of research on cell phones before I committed to the one I have and in the beginning, it was the proverbial cat's meow.  That's until I got an alert from the manufactured that update software was available, strongly urging me to update.  I've experienced four "improvement" updates since that day and with every upgrade, the phone f*cks up more and more.  Now I can barely do anything with the phone, without alerts coming up that the programming isn't working properly.

A few years ago, I made the unfortunate decision to purchase an Apple MacBook Pro.  Everyone was chiming in my ear that Apple was the way to go.  The way of the future.  That it was SO simple to use, that an idiot could use it without a problem.  Apparently, I scaled below idiocy as I had nothing but problems in working the computer.  Then again, the computer did foul up a total of four times, which equated in three new hard drives along the way before the store from whom I purchased it, finally consented to returning my money.  The PC I replaced it with, has worked like a charm ever since.  It's been about four years now.  I did have the hard drive replaced once, I'll admit, but that was due to a virus that some dumb motherf*cker sent me under the guise of Microsoft.  Not my fault.

A part of the deal when I bought the Apple, was a $99 HP printer and a Bose surround sound that I got for around $200.  When I returned the Apple, I kinda forgot to return the printer and the surround sound, but still got the full credit for monies spent, so in a sense, the surround sound and printer became free.

The printer worked like a charm, and I regret ever packing it up and replacing it with a Kodak printer.  I was interested in trying to do photography and figured the Kodak would do a better job.  It didn't.  So it sat for a couple years, as did the HP.  Recently, the Kodak stopped working properly.  Frustrated, I packed up the Kodak and re-hooked up the HP.  Like seeing an old girlfriend, the printer seemed to gleam in the light of the office.  I looked forward to reliving some of the old times when I would print off literary pieces that I'd write, like the one I'm tapping out, right now.

Tonight, I ended my procrastination of writing out some documents I need for work.  The office has been hounding me to get my shit in and I don't dare show my face there again, until I have these important documents in hand.  I sat down immediately after I returned home and typed up the first document.  It looks pretty god damned good, considering I don't know what the f*ck I'm doing.

I set up the printer.  Everything checked out.  All the right lights were blinking and then...  NOTHING!  Not one f*cking page.  I don't know anything about this computer shit, but I like simplicity.  Every other time, I would open up the bay where the ink cartridges were, take them out and tap them on the desk.  This usually resulted in a printed page, but not this time.  "They were new cartridges, so I don't understand why it wouldn't work." I thought to myself, actually scratching my head in the process.  I shrugged my shoulders and ran off to the nearby computer shop, returning twenty minutes later with a new cartridge in hand.  I unwrapped it and placed it in the now vacant slot.

The printer hummed and gaffed for a moment then printed out a pristine test page.  I was all set.  I clicked 'print' and.....  NOTHING!!  Nada.  Zilch.  Not a single f*cking groan or growl.  Just a click of the ink tray resetting.  I pressed 'print' again and nothing.  I went through the process six more times and STILL nothing!!

The valuable lesson I learned tonight was: If you're going to angrily throw a printer, do it outside because the glass is hard as f*ck to pick out of the carpet.  I must have about twenty-three minuscule shards of glass stuck in my hands and fingers and as tiny as they are, they all hurt like they're butcher knives.  My hands were stained crimson red as I picked up every last morsel of glass, before running my vacuum over the rug.  I'm not proud of losing my temper.  In fact, it's been a long long... long time since I've lost my temper to this magnitude.

I also learned, tonight, when I returned to the computer store, this time to purchase a new printer, that the ink, if left for a lengthy period of time, sometimes with thicken and gum up the printer head, which results in the need to replace the printer.  That would've been a handy tidbit to know before blowing $26 on a f*cking ink cartridge.

Long story short (I know.  Too late!)  I replaced my shitty (now) broken HP printer with a Samsung laser printer.  The cartridges will cost a f*ck of a lot more, but the fella there explained that because it's powder, it can sit for a long period of time and STILL (f*cking) work.  *He didn't use the F-word, but I would've respected him if he had.

I own a Samsung TV.  A Samsung 3D Bluray player and a Samsung refrigerator.  Why not add a Samsung laser printer into the mix.  After the phone fiasco, I'm determined to replace it with a Samsung, as well.  I'm keeping the shit simple.

(The printer was regular $600, but it had a sale tag on it for $199.99.  At the register, I learned that the sale was no longer in affect, but they still gave it to me for the $200.  After a shitty loser of a day, it's nice to have a WIN!!)

My Little Woodpecker

How nice it would be to have a little woodpecker.  A little woodpecker perched atop my shoulder, like a parrot does a pirate.  A little woodpecker to accompany me on my travels, domestic and abroad.  A little woodpecker to cheep in my ear when it's hungry or starved for affection.  A little woodpecker to hover and peck at the hard-to-reach itches on my back that can't be addressed by conventional methods.  It would surely be nice to have a little woodpecker.

Invincible

When we are young, we're fearless.  Not feat seems too daunting, no outcome too dangerous or frightening.  As kids, we may be afraid of what may be lurking in the shadows of our closets or creeping about under our beds, but in real life, outside, we're braver than the most courageous knight.

In high school, I recall having a healthy respect for the ski slope of our nearby Mount Blackstrap.  In comparison to the Rockies which tower over Western Canada, Blackstrap was a mere gopher hill, but gravity is gravity.  Crashing on a pair of skis is going to hurt, no matter what location you may be at the time.  However, there were small children visiting the ski hill that day, and while I, personally, was taking great caution in moving down the slopes, careful not to fall, yet again, my efforts were quite frivolous compared to the hoards of screaming and laughing children, streaking past me in a flash, sans ski poles.  Without trying, their very existence mocked me and my need for careful circumspection.

Fearless.

I used to be fearless in other ways.  One example would be my ability to overcome hot 'n' spicy foods.  Once upon a time, I attended a function where hot buffalo wings were served.  They were especially hot, but I was able to devour them with the greatest of ease.  While other people were panicking, searching out cold beverages to sooth their burning mouths and tissue to wipe the tears from their eyes, I sat back and mocked their inferiority with great disdain.

As time passed by, over the years, my tolerance for such spicy foods has fallen by the wayside.  No longer can I mock those affected by the extreme temperatures, but instead, have become the one who is mocked.  I ordered the "Pansy Wings" one night at a local watering hole, after work.  The people mocked me at the absurdity that I would purchase something so undaring and weak.  The ridiculing I got when I placed my order fell by the wayside compared to the teasing I received when they 'pansy wings' arrived and they affected me in a negative way, equal to that, if I would have received something much more spicy.  My eyes grew big, red and teary, while my lips got fat and swollen.  I shrugged off every poke and prod with every sniffle of my runny nose.  To this day, I'm fairly certain the cook read "pansy wings" on the order ticket, then thought it funny to give me the "Suicide Wings", they were THAT hot!

I have dabbled some, when it comes to spicy foods, but I don't go overboard.  When I do, I suffer such indigestion, that I swear death would be an improvement.  Of the foods I have been able to consume without much suffering, includes some chili con carne, which may have some heat to it, but nothing over the top.  Another snack I've been able to endure are jalapeno poppers.  The hollowed out pepper filled with cream cheese and lightly breaded.  Once in a blue moon, I'll bite into one that is unbelievably hot, but more times than not, they're pretty tame.  The same goes for the light rolls also known as 'antojitos'.  I've had them in the past, and while they do contain ingredients of a tempered nature, the cream cheese in them have always been able to stave off the heat.

Fast forward to this evening.  Following the Norm MacDonald comedy show, myself and a friend, decided to go for a beverage and a snack.  I'd not eaten since before noon, so I was famished.  I perused over the menu and decided on a pulled pork poutine and an order of antojitos.  The poutine was fine, despite the pulled pork having the consistency of meat that sat under a heat lamp since late morning.  The antojitos, on the other hand....  Jesus Christ.., let me tell you.  Hotter than a motherf**ker.  I ate only one piece out of the five that were presented on the plate and the scorching heat was nearly unbearable.  Every passing moment, for me, was more uncomfortable than the preceding one.  Every inch burned like a wildfire as it passed down my esophagus to my stomach.  It blazed the entire route like Marty McFly's DeLorean time machine.

That was it.  I'd had enough.  I asked the waitress to box it up, adding that it was much to hot for me to finish.  Kind as she was, the waitress spoke to her supervisor and had it deleted from my bill.  She still boxed it up for me, but I handed it off to my friend, whose constitution with spicy foods is much better than my own.

I remember when I was invincible, but sadly those days are long gone.  It's said with age, comes wisdom.  Funny thing is...  I don't feel any wiser.

Weight Loss Starts With 'P'

On a visit to the doctor about two months ago, I had a visit with a dietitian on the premises.  She was there to consult with me on how I might go about lowering my blood sugar levels.  Being diagnosed with Type II diabetes a few years ago, my daily dose of Metformin can only do so much.  I decided to try to eat healthier, introducing more vegetables to my diet.  For those who follow my Twitter account (@ToontownJuggalo), you may have seen some of my pictures of prepared meals.  I'm quite proud of my tasty concoctions and don't mind promoting my culinary genius when possible.  There was discussion at the time about placing me on a new drug, called "Forxiga" (For-zee-ga), that would work in conjunction with the medication I'm already taking.  The prescription for that, however, would have to wait until I had a different test performed on my downstairs region.

Eventually, I met back up with the dietitian to further discuss my diabetic situation.  In the months in between meets, I was to test my blood on a semi-regular basis.  Semi-regular because due to my limited income, I can't afford the test strips required to test my blood.  The drug companies who control the sale of test strips have diabetics at a great disadvantage, as strips cost a f*ck-load of money.  Thankfully, the dietitian lady had free samples and was able to provide me with the testing equipment and strips.  On this visit, it was decided that we go ahead with the introduction of this new drug, Forxiga.

Information was provided prior to my filling the prescription briefly details what is to be expected from taking the pills, in addition, a list of the most common side effects was also listed.  Generally, this list is my favourite part of any prospective drug.  The most prominent is headaches, back pain, pain in my arms, frequent urination, constipation and diarrhea.  Ironically, I already suffer from headaches and back pain, so nothing new there.  The pain in the arms is new and if I forget, I begin to suspect I'm having a heart attack, before I remember.  I have been peeing a lot more, both in frequency and duration, but that's a major part of the drug's purpose as excess sugar is disposed in this manner.  As for the last two symptoms, I'm happy to report neither is affecting me.

Another positive to this new drug, aside from the guarantee that I will be receiving it free-of-charge for the next twelve months, is because of the frequent urination, weight loss is also associated with the taking of the drug.  Although I've only been taking Forxiga for about a week, I've already lost a couple of pounds, and that's considering the ample amounts of junk food I consumed over this past weekend.  Imagine the slick sexy self that will emerge when eating a more healthy diet along with the medicine.  Move over, Bert Kreischer, I'm bringing sexy back!! 

"Bringing sexy back!! That's a laugh!!"

An Imperfect World

WARNING:
Subject matter in this blog is not for the faint of heart. Some expressive description will be used.

When I first created my blog, I wanted to keep things light.  Give my slight askew vision of social commentary or observations of shear kookiness, but as time has wore on, I'm finding that some subject matters need serious commentaries.  One such subject was discussed on a program I watched on CNN, last night, recorded from one week ago.  It discussed the inhumanity of Capital Punishment.  The program investigated the claims that the execution of violent criminals was unjust.  In my opinion, if a person is convicted of a crime so heinous that they're served with a death sentence, chances are, they deserved it.

In a moment, I will provide two examples of people identified in the television documentary who were sentenced to death.  I will give the crimes that they were convicted of committing, and you tell me, if lethal injection is too inhumane.  Be forewarned, though, the crimes are not for the faint of heart and may infuriate you every bit as much as they did myself, as I sat in the dark with my eyes glued to the television.  However, before I do that, I should address those naysayers who suggest the wrongfully convicted.

Justice is fleeting sometimes.  It's an imperfect world that we live in and it's a sad truth that sometimes the wrong person falls through the cracks of justice.  All the evidence in the world may point at someone's absolute guilt, only to have one piece of evidence down the road of time, free them of any wrong-doing.  A prime example in Canada, is the wrongful prosecution and incarceration of David Milgaard, who as a young teen was convicted of raping and murdering a young nursing student, despite witnesses providing a legitimate alibi.  Law enforcement and prosecution chose to take the word of a delusional man, suffering from mental illness, over the witness' testimony.  As a result, Milgaard, age 17 at the time of his conviction, spent 23 years in a Federal Penitentiary.  After many appeals and finally DNA testing, David Milgaard, then forty years of age, was released and the real culprit, Larry Fisher, was brought to justice.

Canada no longer has Capital Punishment, it being abolished after 217 years.  It was first used when we were still a British colony and was continued until it's abolishment in 1976, after 1481 people were sentenced to death, a total of 697 men and 13 women were executed.  The method of execution was hanging.  In the documentary I watched, it described hanging as a science.  That if the fall was too short, the convicted may not expire immediately or if the fall were too far, there were instances where the head of the accused would pop right off the body, completely.  I would agree that getting this form of execution just right, would be preferred, both for those sentenced to die and those present to bear witness.

The preferred method, today, in the U.S. is Lethal Injection, a method which is still under some debate as to whether it's a valid and humane method to execute.  The drug used initially, is no longer in production, so states that still practicing the capital executions, have resorted to using untested concoctions of drugs to promote the expiration of death row inmates.  The resulting deaths have been described as extremely painful and disturbing to watch.  One example of this is the death of Clayton Lockett, a man used as an example in the documentary.

Clayton Lockett was convicted of the kidnapping, beating and violent murder of a young nineteen year old woman, Stephanie Neiman, who was just two weeks past her high school graduation.  Lockett's friends subdued, raped and beat Neiman's friends, including a nine month old baby, but Neiman was shot because of her refusal to tell Lockett that she would not alert the authorities.  Lockett shot her with a single shotgun blast.  He tried to shoot a second time, but the gun jammed.  While bleeding profusely and begging for her life, Stephanie watched as Lockett cleared the rifle before turning it on her a second time.  In his confession, Lockett describes seeing puffs of dirt as the still breathing Neiman was buried in a shallow grave.

Now think about this image for a moment.  Lockett was unjustly Neiman's "judge and executioner" forcing her to die a most horrendous death in a shallow grave.  It's told that Lockett's death took just short of  forty-five minutes, during which time he violently writhed in agony, desperately gasping for air.  Given the method he used to murder Stephanie Neiman, why should he not be punished in a similar fashion?  

Charles Warner was the monster who was initially scheduled to die the same night that Clayton Lockett was put to death, but his execution was postponed due to Lockett's painful expiration.  His case would be argued in court for some time before the facts of his heinous act was finally given the go ahead to commence.

Charles Warner was convicted to death for the rape and murder of his live-in girlfriend's 11 month old baby.  Think about that for a moment...  I'll wait.  When you consider how horrific rape is for a fully grown adult woman, mortal words cannot describe with any sort of accuracy how brutally savage the act is when committed on a baby.  A fucking baby.  I am still in disbelief that mankind ever produced an individual so vile that he felt compelled to rape a baby.

Subsequently, Warner was put to death a few months later.  During his execution, claims state that Warner exaggerated his pain, screaming in agony, "My body is on fire!"  It's theorized that Warner was being overly dramatic to help his death row brethren with their appeal cases.  Whatever the case, given his reprehensible acts (he was also accused of raping a 5 year old little girl, then beating her with an extension cord), I hope his execution truly was excruciating.  Little Arianna Waller didn't deserve the pain she endured in the last moments of her infant life.

Does Capital Punishment work as a deterrent?  It's doubtful.  Variations of executions have existed for over a thousand years.  If it worked no one would commit the violent act that they do today.  Is it a viable punishment for monsters like Lockett and Warner?  You're god damned right it is.  Granted, like the Milgaard case that I described above, there are some innocent people through obscured facts fall between the cracks of justice and are incarcerated, but due justice grants these people appeals.  Any new information that surfaces can be introduced, like DNA, that can lead to the exoneration of wrongful convictions.

As I stated, we live in an imperfect world.  Mistakes happen and I'm sure there are examples throughout history of innocents being wrongfully executed (Salem Witch Trials), as well as in recent memory and I feel bad for them.  I really do.  Nowadays, however, with the advent of DNA testing, wrongful convictions are proven more difficult and executions of innocent parties, I'm sure is unheard of.  Almost everyone in prison, whether on death row or general population, are going to claim innocence.  I see it on television, all the time.  The most violent of murders are always tough guys on the streets, but when they're alone in the interrogation room, facing off against their accusers, they always crack, bursting into tears.  Not tears of guilt, but tears of "oh shit, I'm caught".

In a perfect utopia, violence would only be the subject of the movies, never spilling into the streets.  However, like I've pointed out so many times in this blog, today; We live in an imperfect world.