Smoke & Mirrors - The Epilogue

Years ago, I had a blog on another site.  There I'd post on a daily basis, under the pseudonym of ToontownJuggalo.  I was lucky when I came up with that name.  I was the first one ever to be referred to by that name.  Numero uno.  On that site, I posted only as that persona and never divulged a single secret about who I was, although much of my personality did bleed into those posts.  I never shared any of those entries on Facebook or Twitter.  They all remained in-house, so to speak.  It was on that sight that I wrote about Chewbacca never having shit stuck in his fur.  That's where I first speculated on the the reason behind why Christ Benoit committed those horrific acts towards his family before committing suicide, which was a full six months before the science came back and YES, confirmed my theory ten-fold.  It was also on that site, where I would write out what was affecting me on that day.  Celebrations that I never got to share with anyone, as well as the sorrow and sadness of coping with whatever was bothering me.  There was a hand full of regular readers, none of which were directly affiliated with me, except when I was dealing with the loss of my friend Darcy.  That's when I needed to share with people and the stone wall that I had built around my "illness" began to crumble.

As the years have passed by, I've kept most of my walls up, guarding myself from being hurt.  It's easier for me to deal with my demons one-on-one, than it is to fight them off and worry about what everyone else is thinking.  I know that at the core of it all, the really important people in my life, will be there in a time of crisis, if needed.  I only hope that I have the courage necessary to extend a hand in hopes of getting that support.

I've said it before and I'll say it again.  I'm shy.  I'm painfully shy.  I'm like Robin Williams, in a way.  I could always see that insecurity that he possessed.  He acted out, all happy, goofy and comically in an effort to mask his insecurities, but those of us who know...  We knew.  I'm just like Robin, only instead of being jovial, I'm snide and snarky.  Kind of a dick, at times.  I like to joke, but my sense of humour is dark, just like my soul.

I'd like to be more popular.  I'd like people to want to have me around.  I'd like people to miss me, even.  I wish I could be like other people.  But I don't want to be other people.  I'd like to know how to be like them.  Confident and self-assured.  I don't know how to be like that.  I don't know how to make friends.  I have friends, but I honestly don't know when they transitioned from being acquaintances to being friends.

I remember when the towers came down on 9/11.  Sitting alone in my livingroom, eyes glued on the television set, and I never felt so alone.  I got news over a year ago about black spots found on my lung and I had to endure that alone.  Still have to.  I'm trying hard not to think about it, but I have to admit, it's getting increasingly difficult to do so.

I used to have a couple female friends who would happily give me a hug whenever I'd ask.  Trisha...  I miss Trisha's hugs.  She was a single mom and her hugs always felt so warm and genuine.  Taya was the same way.  My friend Sonia always offers up a hug when I see her.  That's always a highlight, but I wouldn't dare ask anyone I'm currently with, because I know I'd get that "are you f*cking serious" look.  I don't need that look.

Today, this is me.  The walls have all crumbled away.  This is who I am.  Take it or leave it.  I'm done.  I'm tired of hiding in the shadows.  It's time to step into the light, my faults and everything.  Sadly, my family will still not know who I am, but aah.  F*ck 'em..!

Now if you'll excuse me.  I've been sitting at this table on this hard-as-f*ck chair for over six hours, closing in on seven.  My ass hurts tremendously and I have a headache forming.  My cat is screaming like a banshee and won't use his words to explain.  I'm going to go smoke a bowl and have a good night.   See you on the flip-side.

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter Four: Coping Mechanisms

I did a lot of homework before I bought my truck in 2008.  I wanted bang for my buck.  I wanted to get as much as I possibly could for one price.  Initially, I was going to buy the Honda CRV, crossover, but I read that the vehicle didn't offer much by way of good gas mileage.  Then I considered the Ford Escape Hybrid, but read that if taken on the highway, the fuel consumption was higher than the V6 model.  Then I set my sights on the Honda Ridgeline pick-up truck.  The gas mileage was great.  It was a unibody, it rides great.  It's all the comforts of a car, including a trunk located in the box.  It had a lot of umph!  Get up and go.  I test drove the Ridgeline a number of times, then when the day came to buy, I went into the dealership, knowing exactly what I wanted, and called out "no bullshit".  My research was so precise that when I requested the gold accents on the logo and name placard, I knew the order code.

So what does this have to do with coping with stress, anxiety and depression?  I'll get to that eventually.  My point is this.  I don't do hardly anything without looking into every possible avenue.  I want that umph.  I want the most bang for my buck.  I want to tackle everything efficiently.  And I feel I have.

As stated in Chapter One, I suffer from something that I call "Seasonal Depression".  I've never formally been diagnosed by my physician for depression, but I'm not a f*cking idiot.  If it looks like a duck and it quacks like a duck, there's a 99% chance (+/- 1%) that it's a f*cking duck!  So if for more than ten years I've been gloomy, sad and depressed from Halloween through to just after my mom and sister's birthday's, chances are I suffer from depression.

This year I decided to try something new.  I began listening to online podcasts about a year and a half ago, with a majority of it culminating in the last year.  I listen to a great many different podcasters, of whom include, Adam Corolla, Kevin Smith & Scott Mosier, Ari Shaffir, Joe Rogan, and I especially like Bert Kreischer (though I constantly f*ck up the spelling of his name) and Doug Benson.

In addition to his love of movies, Doug Benson is a notorious pot smoker, and like Joe Rogan, promotes the positive medicinal attributes that marijuana provides.  The more I listened, the more I began to wonder.  I wondered if smoking marijuana would improve my "seasonal depression", so I set forth to do my due diligence.  I researched the f*ck out of the benefits of smoking marijuana and any negatives that it might create.  After all, inhaling smoke is not a naturally occurring phenomena, although the first nations people have been smoking different plants in their rituals for hundreds or even thousands of years, so... Who knows?

Everything I read on the subject reflected nothing but positivity, zero negatives, other than putting on a few pounds.  So I moved forward with this "experiment" and yes.  I'm coming out in this chapter of this blog series, that I smoke pot, but just for the medicinal purposes.  I'm not a daily smoker.  I only use it as needed.  I've not used any in a couple of weeks, and the effects of not using have been tremendous.  I've been sad and depressed for more than a week.  My friend made a remark the other day and it broke my heart.  I was truly hurt.  That's my downfall.  I can seem fine, then one off remark can send me spiraling and it's every ounce of courage to regain my composure.  The remark was in reference to my blogs, my subject matter and though they were enjoyable, they were equally inappropriate.  We've made amends, not that we were squabbling, but it's taken me every shred of confidence and will to dig myself out of this hole I find myself in.  I think this is, in part, due to my not medicating myself.  I have a lot of stress on my shoulders.  Unemployment being one.  Health issues are in the back of my mind.  Loneliness, despite having a cat, is still loneliness.

Since starting this new chapter of smoking pot, I've found it beneficial in overcoming most of my "seasonal depression", the migraines that plague me throughout the colder months have been VERY few and far between, which I relish immensely, and much to my surprise, my asthma has improved, as well.  I usually have to rely on one inhaler a month (roughly) to combat my breathing issues.  During the more frequent usage of marijuana, my asthma was not an issue, hardly.  Maybe a puff every other day.  Put it this way.  I got an inhaler just before Christmas, and I'm still on the same inhaler more than a month later.  In recent weeks, with the decline of smoking, I've had to rely on it a little more, but it's still pretty impressive I think.

So I did my homework and got the best truck for me.  I did my homework and got the best television SmartTV, that I could get.  And I did my research to learn that marijuana in addition to a plethora of other advantages, also quashes my depression.  I don't know why it's illegal.  I really don't.

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter Three: The Escape Plan

Earlier this year, we were all shocked by the news of actor/comedian, Robin Williams have committed suicide by way of hanging.  He killed himself in the very same manner as my favourite pro wrestler, Chris Benoit.  Aside from Benoit's horrific acts that preluded to his suicide, the act of hanging oneself in the manner than these two individuals settled upon, has baffled me in the time since.  Neither one hung from a height, but instead, wrapped the belt around their necks then leaned into the hanging.  I apologize for the graphic detail, but suicide isn't a natural behavior.  At some point, the body's natural instinct for survival is going to set in and (should) override the predetermination of the suicide, but this never seemed to be the case.  I can't remember if Chris had any drugs or alcohol in his system at the time of his demise, and I never heard anything about Robin.

I'm no stranger to the contemplation of suicide.  I'd be remiss if I said that the thought had never crossed my mind.  It has, but it's only been twice..., I think.  Maybe three times.  Hopefully, through investigation in this chapter of my shitty little life, I'll be able to recall the exact number.  Although, I'm certain it's only been twice.

The first time, was a fleeting thought.  More of a "I'll show them", sort of mentality.  It was following the incident with my dad.  I had moved into the city, living with my aunt.  She worked out of town, so I had the apartment all to myself.  A lot of free time on my hands and most of it spent alone with my thoughts.  I do recall that at the time, I was reeling from the idea of a father beating his own son black, blue and bloody.  I couldn't wrap my head around it.  I'd never come to the "Jeckyll & Hyde" revelation until many years later.  Sadly, it was after his death.  I'd already made my peace with him and, in my opinion, we'd become friends.  However, at the tender age of seventeen, my brain was not fully developed yet, so my intelligence was still lacked.

One day, in a fit of depression, anxiety, anger and whatever else was in my head, spicing that stew of negativity, I came up with a plan of revenge.  I planned to kill myself, just so I could see the guilt on my father's face when he came to realize that he was the reason I had killed myself.  The plan, I thought, was foolproof.  That is, until I realized that I couldn't see the look of shame and guilt on his face, if I were dead.  I quickly discarded that plan, choosing life instead.

The second time I'd contemplated suicide was almost six years ago.  I got fired from a job, due to a violent reaction to a comment that a fellow worker had said (ironically) about my father.  I'm ashamed of my actions and I refuse to share those details in this forum, but suffice it to say, it was pretty f*cking bad.

Everyone's opinion of me was going to be, and I'm sure has been, forever altered.  Especially, after some of the embellishments I've heard over the years.  They were not kind and painted me in a much worse image than what had happened in reality.  I was brought up on charges of assault and faced real jail time, it was that bad.  Thankfully, I sought anger management straight away and that coupled with conflicting stories from the victim and the single witness, in addition to my honest and yes very unflattering description of events, helped me avoid jail and anything that would scar my permanent criminal record.  We settled by way of a mediator and a written apology, which I spent a full week of writing and re-writing to make it sound as honest as possible.  I really was sorry.

However, in the initial hours following the assault, I knew that a person of whom I cared for deeply would hear of my downfall and embellished facts of the matter and I thought that if she thought me to be a monster, that I couldn't live on from that.  Thankfully, I contacted her a day or two following my dismissal and everything was copacetic.  Our friendship would remain intact and suicide was never an option after that.

Lately, there seem to be a cornucopia of reports of people, young and old, committing suicide as a way of escaping their problems.  After my initial contemplation and realization, I never even considered suicide after that.  Other people venture into drugs and alcohol as a way of coping with stress and anxiety.  Having been a witness to how alcohol affected my dad, I strayed away from alcohol and drugs never seemed to be an option.  Instead, I dove head first into adventure.  I was a famed archaeologist, fighting the Nazi plight.  I was a scoundrel of a space pirate, battling the evil empire with my large hairy companion and a feisty princess at my side.  I was also a race car driver, a pirate, a nerdy high school kid who scored the hot cheerleader.  It seemed like week-to-week, I was a different charismatic character and sad thoughts and anxiety and loneliness was never a factor again.  Not for a few more years, anyway.  Whenever I'd feel low, sad or depressed, I'd escape to the movies and for two hours, I didn't have to be me, anymore.

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter Two: The Journey From Diffidence to Being An Asshole

I've mentioned to people that I am painfully shy.  Most don't believe me as I am, for the most part, a smart ass.  I'm quiet and reserved at first, gauging my surroundings, then I'll open up some, mostly offering up smart ass comments of teasing jabs.  I mean no malice, by it, just harmful fun with hopes of making people laugh.  This was a self-preservation tool that many bullied children adapt on the playground.  You're far less likely to get punched in the gut or your underwear hiked up your ass, if you can make the bully laugh, even if at your own expense.  I recall using this tactic many times on the mean playground at King George elementary.  Except one time where I became favourable with one bully, while infuriating another, which ultimately earned me a sharp punch to the abdomen.

These days, I'm always present with a sharp witty comment.  When I'm with my friend, Melissa, I will often hit her with a barrage of comments, when I see someone in my peripheral who's musing at my quips.  I can't recall any of which I can share right now, but I assure you, if you ever have the privilege of meeting her, you can ask her yourself.  She's not shy about sharing those moments.

I wasn't always that way, though.  I actually have been painfully shy at times.  Even today, I find myself stressing out about uncomfortable situations.  I had some people over to my house a few weeks back and stressed about that, even.  Back when I went to university, I was no different, despite my going away to a new city, with new surroundings, I looked at it as a chance to re-invent myself, then when faced with the opportunity to do so.  I caved.  Things got so bad, that I soon found myself ditching classes and in the evenings driving off to be alone at the movies.  I had ample opportunities to hang with classmates, but I found myself overwhelmed with anxiety and fear.  I'd come to my film class, quietly seated in the back, never raising my hand, never offering any input.  This was a class that, academically, I should have been superior to most of my classmates, but the fear of all eyes locking on my fugliness, was scarier than any bully I'd faced off with on the playground.  No witty remarks or jokes would overcome this brood of students, I felt.  Eventually the school year would come to a close, my marks were fair, but not nearly as good as if I'd have sacked up and joined the group.

I'd come home that spring, a failure in my own eyes.  Eventually, I'd need work and sadly the only work I could get was that of door-to-door sales.  To be a success at sales, you can't be f*cking shy for one moment.  It was here that I learned to mask my insecurities and push my personal envelope of comfortability.
Success as a salesman would elude me, however.  I was good at it, to a degree, but personal feelings and thoughts about honesty would overcome the sleaziness of sales and ultimately my demise from the vocation, although it was a car accident that would get me out of that line of work.

The next few years I worked retail, which helped me come out of my shell a little more, as well as add to my arsenal of being a smart ass.  My ultimate downfall, has always been, acting like a smart ass to the wrong people, supervisors and managers, to be more precise.  In an effort to avoid being uncomfortable or that scared little boy, I opt instead, to be a smart ass.  I guess, it's easier for people to hate me because I'm an asshole, than it is to deal with their hating me because of me.  Who knew being a dick would be a safeguard?

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter One: Dr. Jeckyll & Mr. Hyde

I was born into humble beginnings, growing up on a farm just west of the city.  I've written in the past that the farm was quite literally on the city limits of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, although when I was a tyke, the city seemed farther away.  Today, the city is practically on our doorstep, though no one has lived on the premises for over a decade.  Recently, I drove a friend out to show them a piece of my history, and I was astonished and even a little bit horrified at the sight I saw.  A decade of neglect has allowed the trees and shrubbery to grow over the lane way that leads into the yard.  We sold the property, my sister and I, a little over eight years ago, and I had only assumed that the new owners would've had someone care for the land.  It was, admittedly, a little heart-wrenching.

Being a kid plagued with a lot of allergies, it broke my father's heart when I couldn't follow in his footsteps and become a farmer like him, and his father before him and his granddad before him.  Many generation of farmers will cease to exist, because of me.  I'm not sure if my cousins partake in the livelihood, but it comes to mind that they do not.

In addition to farming, my dad also worked as a heavy duty mechanic in a number of mines, including a gold mine up north, but he concluded his career at the Allan Potash Mine, in Allan, Saskatchewan.  My dad was diagnosed with two types of cancer when he'd gone into the hospital to complain of low-energy.  He was not the type who would seek medical attention unless he felt it was serious.  It was serious and it was caught way too late, and a few months later, at the age of just 54, my dad was dead.

Just writing those words makes me want to break out in tears.  My dad was a good man.  He was a great man.  .... He was the best man, ever.   When he was sober.  When he was drunk, it was a completely different story.  When he was drunk, you did not want to be anywhere near him.  You wouldn't want to be in the same city or plain of reality.  At the time, I thought of him as a monster.  In the years since, I've identified it as "Jeckyll & Hyde Syndrome".   When he was sober, he was "Dr. Jeckyll".  A free-spirited man, with love and happiness in his heart, generous to a fault, but when he was drunk, ie. "Mr. Hyde", he was a real son-of-a-bitch.  He was a monster.., truly.  He was angry.  He was violent. And like I said, you did not want to be around him, at all.

As a young fellow, I was not immune to his anger.  Many times I found myself on the wrong end of a swinging fist or two.  A couple of times I was tossed up against the wall, his grip tightly wound around my neck and told that I wasn't worth the bullet it would take to blow me to hell.  I was a little insulted as the cost of a .22 shell in those days, were literally pennies on the dollar.  An aptly placed .22 shell can bounce around the cranium and tear up the brain quite efficiently, unless my mafia movies have lead me astray.  But the one incident that weighs the most heavily on me and continued to do so for a number of years, likely because I would identify the occasion on it's anniversary every year, was what occurred just three days prior to my seventeenth birthday on November 26th at 7:02pm.

My sister and I had been arguing before my dad had gotten home.  My mom had left, attending a union meeting in the city, so we were at home when my dad arrived.  He was already three sheets to the wind.  My sister was in her room and I was in mine.  I don't know what exactly the conversation was between my sister and my dad, but at 7:02pm, while seated on my bed, I heard a light knock on my door, followed by a soft spoken request to come in.  I said yes, and my dad slowly stepped into the room.  Suddenly, in a burst of energy, he lunged at me.  The room grew dark, his eyes glowing sharply, as he drew down on me, grabbing me with his left and pummeling me with his right.  He got two hits in, before I broke free, going for a baseball bat leaning in the corner, but he grabbed a hold of me, throwing me back on the bed and proceeding to hit me few more times before nearly breaking my arm.  Then suddenly, the frenzy ended as quickly as it had begun.  Calmly he picked me up off the bed and led me into the bathroom, where he proceeded to explain to me about respect, for him and my sister, all the while I was cleaning the blood from my face.

In the end, I had a bruised clavicle, three or four broken teeth, my earring was ripped (backwards) through my ear, and my nose was smashed.  I sat at the table for an hour or two, listening to how it hurt him more to have to teach me this lesson than it did me for receiving said lesson.  My mom eventually came home, and was instructed to take me to the hospital.  That's where a doctor twisted my nose back into place, making it appear more presentable, although I wish closer attention was given to it, as it never healed properly and eventually gave me a lot of headaches in the years that followed.

Today, the nose barely gives me any grief, although during really cold weather, it does hurt some.  Not to mention if I so much as bump it the wrong way or someone jokingly plays that "I got your nose" game that people play with small children, that motherf*cker will bleed uncontrollably.  Some have told me, since, that I should get it re-broke and set correctly, but ask anyone who's actually had that procedure done, and it's no picnic.  I'd rather live with the discomfort and the possibility that I might piss someone off and have them break my nose instead.  It'd make for a better story.

Now....  I've painted a very grim picture of my father.  Something that I've shared with very few people.  Hell, even my family, don't know the intimate details of the violence that commenced that night.  They don't read my blog.  They don't have Facebook or Twitter.  Unless a family member who does have either of these social media outlets, reads these words, I'm sure the images will die with me.

My dad was a good man.  He would eventually sober up, putting his days of drunkenness behind him.  I remember on his one year anniversary of sobriety.  We were driving when he informed me that, "today is my one year anniversary of being sober."  I congratulated him and asked how he felt.

"I don't feel any different now than when I was drinking." he muttered, to which I quickly replied, "Then I guess there's really no point in drinking anymore, then."   He paused for a moment, visibly thinking about the words I'd just spoken, then realized, "No.  I guess not."

When my dad was drinking, there were many many opportunities where he could have and probably should have died as a result of his being drunk.  He survived every single one, without so much as a scratch.  After a few (beautiful) years of sobriety, he learned he had cancer and died.

Those decades of drunkenness never affected me in the negative way that people would suspect.  I'm sure there are people (albeit probably only two, maybe three) who will read about my dad and believe otherwise, but truly believe me.  His drinking never affected me, mentally, in the long run.  It was his sobriety that would eventually teach me that I should try new things.  He did new things, learned new skills and traveled to places he likely never would have attempted all the years he hid in those bottle of booze.  That's what I take from my dad.

And in retrospect, different people deal with mental disorders and depression in different ways.  Who's to say that my dad didn't suffer from some form of depression which he suppressed through alcohol?  It's possible.  Like I stated, unless he was feeling really terrible, he never sought medical attention.  I doubt feeling sad would have sufficed in the seeking of aid.

Smoke & Mirrors - The Prologue

For days, I've been dipping in and out of a funk.  My own private hell, as I've dubbed it in the past.  I don't know what is the cause of it, but it's something that I've endured for a lifetime.  The hardest part of it all, is enduring these phases alone.  Thankfully, in recent years, I have my cat, Monkey, to distract me from the sadness, but his love and affection only helps so far, before I find myself sad and alone once more.

I've never been clinically diagnosed with any sort of mental disorders, then again, I've never sought any help from my physician in identifying anything of the sort.  I've never been one looking to be labeled as anything, so this condition would run along those lines.  This year, I've managed to cope better than I have in the last decade or more, so that's what's prompting this blog entry today.

As I stated, I've been yo-yo'ing in and out of sadness for a few days.  It began with watching a special that aired on the weekend regarding the (then) upcoming #BellLetsTalk campaign on January 28th, 2015 that addressed the issue of Mental Health.  2015 marks the fifth anniversary of the campaign, which helps in the identification of mental health being a very real disease, rather than something fabricated for attention seekers.  I watched a similar special a few years ago, which helped me identify what it is (& was) that I'd been dealing with for a very long time.  Since then, I've named it "seasonal depression".  Seasonal, because I seem to only suffer (it's worst) from the end of October, clear through to about March or April.  The summer months, for the most part, while lonely, don't seem to affect me too terribly.  It's just the autumn and winter months that f*ck with me.

So how to broach the subject is what has been plaguing my mind.  I am, after all, an artist of sorts.  Writing, at the moment, seems to be my canvass and I wish to paint this picture in broad colourful strokes.  I didn't know what colour to begin with until I took a stupid quiz on Facebook that asked "What colour of the rainbow are you?"  I took the idiotic quiz and got the result of YELLOW.  The description that accompanied the colour, couldn't be further from the truth of how I perceive myself.  It reads as follows:

Yellow is the color of sunshine and symbolizes happiness and friendship! It can stimulate mental energy and cheerfulness and definitely represents you! You love to have fun with your loved ones and your smile can light up a room! Good morning sunshine!

How absurd, right?  I've never felt cheerful and while I do enjoy having fun, I've never done so with "loved ones", whom I assume would be family, and my smile definitely does not light up a room.  Complete hog wash, all of is.  In fact, by re-reading this statement, I can't help but think there is a f*ck of a lot more wrong with me than initially believed.

Initially, I believed this could be discussed and shared over the course of a single blog, but the more thought I put into the subject, the more I come to realize that I need to open up about the past.  Though, it's in my most honest belief, my past is not a contributor to the present.

I Heart Boobs

I was patiently waiting in line at the Bulk Barn today.  I glanced over to another register just as it's teller stooped to pick something up off the floor.  The shirt she was wearing, was not buttoned all the way to the top and as she knelt, I caught a full view of her ample bosom.  Not to sound like a pig, but I suspect the ship has sailed on that, but she had a lot to be proud of.

Fast forward to tonight.  I'm filing through an employment website, continuing the search for gainful employment.  I come across a retail sales associate at a nationwide department store, The Bay.  They're seeking a Sales Associate for the Lingerie Department.  I jokingly mention it to a friend I'm conversing with on Facebook, adding my love of 'boobs' as a benefit.  To my surprise, she urges me to apply.  I insist that I was joking, but she prompts me to apply anyway.  Facetiously, I though of how the interview would play out.

Interviewer: What qualifications do you feel you possess that would be beneficial to you if you were selected for this position?

Me: Well, I'm notorious for looking at boobs.  Morning, noon and night, it's boobs, boobs, boobs.  I guess you could say, "I love tits!"

Interviewer: PERFECT!!  YOU'RE HIRED!!  When can you start?!?

In a perfect world, boobs would be the answer for all of life's problems.  No gas in the car?  Boobs!  No food on the table?  Boobs!  Credit card bill is overdue?  No problem!  BOOBS!  Trouble in the Middle East?  Boo...  Actually, a nice pair of boobs in the Middle East, might be what the doctor's ordered.

As an after thought, I might send in an application for the Lingerie Salesperson job, just as a joke.  I love breasts, so I feel I'm qualified.  (I had to pause while typing that last sentence, as I broke out with laughter.)

The average age of the cliental who frequent The Bay is....  Golden age, I believe.  I'm a pig.  I'm shallow and yes, I like boobs, but not the old wrinkly ones.  Ample boobs and cleavage would be a benefit of any job, provided you can look without being caught, but "they don't pay the bills", as my friend admitted.  It'd be nice and perhaps they do in Vegas, but in the real world, this isn't the case.

Maybe "soapy tits"... ;) 

Welcome to the New Millenium

With the year being 2015, it would seem this salutation comes more than a decade too late, yet I found myself muttering these very words, no more than forty-five minutes ago.  I'd stopped off at the nearby pharmacy to pick up a lottery ticket and some much needed potato chips, in hopes of quashing some cravings I've endured the last couple of days.  I hadn't been in line for more than a few seconds, when I overheard an outburst from the gentleman standing behind me.  

Turning around to see what all the commotion was about, I noticed the older looking fellow, clutching a few groceries in his left arm, while his right was busy motioning all around.  There was no one nearby, yet he seemed to be forcefully addressing someone.  The open air, perhaps.  I haven't the foggiest idea what set him off, but he was quite adamant and passionate about the words spilling from his mouth.  "Men looking like women!  And women acting like men!" seemed to be all he was saying.  Repeatedly, he uttered these words, growing louder and louder with every breath.  "Men looking like women!  And women acting like men!" he repeated, short of chanting.

With a look of confusion painted all across my face, I met his gaze and asked a single word question, "What?!?"

He paused for a moment, staring back at me with a befuddled gaze, then whispered to me.  "What's this world coming to?" he croaked, never averting his devilish glare.  Time seemed to pause for a moment, all activity around me disappearing into a virtual fog, then almost as quickly as it'd stopped, reality rushed back into the light, like a river bursting through a broken levy.  The crazed man recommenced his rant, "Men looking like women!  And women acting like men!"

He continued to rave on, despite exchanged money with the cashier to my right, as I paid for my goods on the left.  I thought quietly to myself, the conversation that would take place, if I had the time to address his properly, and if I actually gave a shit.

I'd begin by saying:  Men & women have been acting like one another since the turn of the new millennium.  Hell, they've exchanged gender roles since before that even.  The 80's had Boy George looking and acting like a woman.  Dee Snider, even dressed the part, albeit he was an ugly-ass woman, as he fronted his band, Twisted Sister.  The gender lines were blurred even before that.  In the seventies and maybe even the sixties.  Unless you've been in a coma for all these many many years, you should have noticed some of this shit going on around you.  You weren't actually in a coma, were you?  If that's the case...

"WELCOME TO THE NEW MILLENNIUM, PAL!!!"

Negative Press

Earlier today, while looking at my Facebook page, I came across a post that read: FAYGO CORP. ISSUES "CEASE AND DESIST" LETTER TO ICP/JUGGALOS.  I read the article written about the case that the soda pop giant based out of Detroit, Michigan, where the Insane Clown Posse also hails from, and was immediately filled with disdain on the subject.  I clicked the 'share' tab and left a comment, which quickly morphed into social commentary.  Impressed (somewhat) with the literary piece I'd so freely constructed, I decided, rather spontaneously, to put it into blog form.  I hope you will LIKE it and will SHARE / RETWEET it, upon your completion of reading it.   ENJOY!!

I'm In A Hurry and Don't Know Why

I was driving home late last night, around midnight and the roads visibly icy. The speed limit read 90km/h, but feeling safer, I remained at 80km. I was literally the lone driver on that stretch of road. I glanced up at my rear view mirror, when I noticed a glint of light in the distance. I thought nothing of it and returned my attention to the road, continuing my trek homeward.

Within seconds, there was a streak that flew past me at an incredibly high velocity. I could make out the Suburu logo on the back of the vehicle before it disappeared into the distance. I was traveling at ten kilometers under the speed limit, but I'd estimate their speed at a whopping fifty or sixty kilometers per hour above it. They were certainly driving well beyond the safety parameters for what road conditions would dictate.

It's situations like this where I hope, in some dark recess of my mind, that I will come upon their wrecked vehicle, smoldering in the ditch, a dreadful result of their brashness and complacency for their environment. Sadly, this was not the case and as such, this smug bastard will continue to drive like a madman, endangering all of us unfortunate to share the road with them.

A Stack of Playboys

I always quote, especially to cashiers who screw up my change, "The one constant in the universe is mathematics", because no matter where you are.., here in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan or on the far off planet, Kepler-10c, two plus two will ALWAYS equal four.

Another constant, at least on this planet, (I can't speak for Kepler-10b or 10c) is the fact that young boys seem to have the adept ability to find a virtual treasure trove of skin magazines in forests.  Practically, every television show and/or podcast, that I've seen or listened to lately, makes reference to finding a stack of Playboy magazines in a nearby forest.  This strikes a cord with me, as the very same thing happened to me when I was a young boy.

Growing up, I lived (practically) a stone's throw from the city limits.  From my kitchen window, I could see the western end of the city, creeping towards our farm.  The sight was obscured partially by a small collection of trees that dissected the wheat field between us and them.  Me and the neighbour kid, Darren, would often ride our bikes into the city, headed to the mall with a hand full of change for the arcade, always cutting through the trees to pierce the outer skin of the growing metropolis.  Located smack dab in the middle of the trees, was a small clearing where high school kids often conglomerated to party and listen to music.  Quite often on a late Friday or Saturday night, you could see the light of a bonfire breaching the dense forest and rocking melodic beats could be heard in the distance, followed by panic and roaring engines as the police came to break up the festivities.

On one of the return trips from our excursions into the city, Darren and I stopped in the open area to look around.  During our inquisitive search, we located and ultimately divvied up a stack of pornographic magazines.  Apparently, in addition to drinking, gossiping and listening to music, people also enjoyed looking at porn.

I can't remember where I kept my stash, but it was likely under the bed.  I don't know why all kids think the narrow space under the bed is impervious to mother's ever suspicious gaze, but that seems to be another constant in the universe.  Even the villains on television seem to believe that hiding the murder weapon under the bed will thwart the police.  Stupid kids.

They were Penthouse magazines that we found.  I guess Playboy offered too many articles for the youth at hand.  I did, however, find and procure a box of Playboys on a solo trip.  That was kinda cool, but as I recall it was hard..., or difficult, rather, to balance the heavy box on my handle bars as I rode my bicycle home across the bumpy terrain.  The reward did outweigh the hassle, though, I admit I never read any of the articles.

No matter where you are in the universe and no matter what magazine you're gawking at, two plus two will always equal four.  And FYI, not that any of you care, I had the magazine on the left of the photo above with the girl in the green dress (Sherilynn Fenn of Twin Peaks).

MYTHBUSTERS NO MORE

Monday night I was shocked to discover that Discovery Channel has made a drastic change to the team that has made up the Mythbusters for the last twelve-plus years.  A new opening title sequence and credits ran, with a high beat count pumping anthem running along side it, appearing to be more action-packed, with quick flashes and cuts between the two titular personalities, Jamie Hyneman and Adam Savage, equivalent to that of a Mission Impossible.  All along, missing from the montage were Kari Byron, Tory Belleci and Grant Imahara, all who have been a part of the show, nearly from it's inception.  I quickly Googled Kari Byron's name and was shocked to learn that Discovery, in an effort to shake things up, released Byron, Belleci and Imahara from their respective contracts back in September, citing "a shake up was needed" as the reasoning behind their dismissals.

In the beginning of the series, in 2003, most of the myths were tested and often busted by the key players, Savage and Hyneman, with some assistance provided by Kari Byron, Tory Belleci and in the beginning, Scottie Chapman, who was a tattooed female gear head/welder, who had also made an appearance once or twice on Jesse James' Monster Garage.  After her departure, Grant Imahara joined the team.

In those first couple of seasons, it was a fun show to watch.  It seemed like real science was applied to a variety of myths, both well-known and some not-so-known.  That's not to say that science hasn't been the base of the experiments in the decade since, but in recent years, it's gotten to be that if any experiment was busted, the trio pictured above, would infuse some sort of plan to add fire power and/or explosives to the mix.  As big of a fan as I think myself to be, I've been growing ever more so tired of the increased folly of it all.

This news broke a little over four months ago, in September of 2014, and right away numerous campaigns were launched by fans to get Kari Byron to return to the show.  Not Tory or Grant, just Kari.  Understandably so, as Kari Byron is one hot redhead.  Can't get enough of her smile, but still.  Is it right to campaign for her job and her job, alone?  Not really.  It's not fair.  On the other hand, does she really need to get her Mythbusting job back?  I say, NO!

Kari Byron was an artist before any of this mythbusting nonsense came about.  In fact, I got an autographed picture from Kari Byron about nine or ten years ago, which I obtained through her art studio, not through the Mythbusters television program.  Somehow I did get the autographs of the other fella's, including Grant Imahara, who at the time, hadn't made his television debut, so I didn't know who the little Asian fella was.  I'm getting a little off topic, but my point is, Kari Byron will be okay, without the likes of Mythbusters or Discovery Channel.  Although, in all honesty, I doubt that Miss Byron will disappear entirely.  I sense that fanatic buzz will get her back onto the airwaves at some point in the future.

Can the show, Mythbusters, survive without Byron, Belleci and Imahara blasting and blowing shit up every week?  Shit yeah, it can.  This past Monday, the show that followed that kick-ass intro to the show, was tremendous.  Testing just two myths based on the Simpsons TV show, one being a cherry bomb dropped into a toilet and causing geysers of water to erupt from multiple bowls; And the second asking could a wrecking ball with Homer Simpson desperately clinging on, actually save a building from being demolished.  I will spare you the outcomes, but the experiments performed by Jamie Hyneman and Adam Savage were stupendous.  If you haven't seen this episode, I highly recommend that you do.

I really really enjoyed the newest version of Mythbusters, being that it was reminiscent of the way things were in the beginning, when I was in awe of the science that was used to discover whether myths and legends were plausible or complete bullshit.

Two Sticks

Nunchaku, nunchuks, juan-tuo, "chainsticks" or "danger sticks"; However you wanna call them, they're impressive to look at, especially in the hands of a professional, but in reality, not a very efficient tool against a wide variety of weapons.  According to Wikipedia, nunchuks are a traditional Okinawan martial arts weapon consisting of two sticks connected at one end by a short chain or rope.  However, despite it's limitations on the battlefield, the nunchaku is a good training weapon as it increases and betters upper body strength and coordination.

The nunchaku was given popular recognition to the masses by the late Bruce Lee.  More recently, children have been enjoying their favourite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, Michelangelo, swinging the weapon around.

I remember when i was a kid, a school chum of mine thought he was quite proficient in swinging his nunchuks about.  One day he was showing off to our class when he swung the "danger sticks" (as some call then online) under his arm, hoping to catch it on the other side, but instead, nailed himself in the back of his head, nearly knocking himself unconscious.  Such "toys" (as the teachers referred to them) were deemed unsafe and banned from school.

Toys....  Ha...!  That's almost laughable, until you take into consideration, other weapons which eventually became toys.  Toys like the boomerang, the yo-yo, and Twister.  You may balk at that last one, but until you start twisting your body around, attempting to put your right hand on red and your left foot on yellow, that is when you realize this was a torture device.  I've not read the report, but I bet the CIA was using Twister at Guantanamo Bay.

Chuckles Mohammed

When I first conceived today's blog, it differed greatly in content then, from what it does today.  At first glance, the shootings that occurred yesterday in France, appeared to be the usual bullshit of angry religious zealots over-reacting to some kind of crap about the Prophet Mohammed being depicted publicly.  I cited the on one of the posted media blurbs, the ridiculousness of these Muslim terrorists (and those like them) who took aim at South Park's Trey Parker and Matt Stone a few years ago, when they had the Prophet Mohammed appear on an episode of South Park wearing a bear suit.  I went on to explain that Muslims lack a sense of humour.

It's amazing what you can find when you type in certain word into the search page of Google.  If you type two words: Laughing Muslims, then switch to the Images page, you find several pictures of toothy grinned Middle Easterners engaged in hearty belly-jiggling laughter.  These few images have taught me that Muslims do have a sense of humour.  I don't know the context of which these few folks are laughing.  Maybe it's at camels or goats, I'm not judging.  I doubt it's at a comedic depiction of their religious icons.  I don't know.

I've also learned, through this tragedy, that the knee-jerk reaction by the majority is...  Well...  It's really quite tragic, and that's putting it mildly.  I read on several message boards today, the condoning of complete annihilation of the Muslim people.  Comments ranging from "Islam is a Satan worshiping religion", "remove all the Muslims of the world" & "kill them all", just to name the less vile entries.  I'm guilty of similar thoughts following the events on 9/11, saying words like "we gotta barbecue their kids".  I was younger then and in a different frame of mind.  Reading these comments yesterday and today, I was horrified.

I replied to some of the despicable comments left, stating that if we, as a people, were to respond with ethnic genocide, we'd be no better than the terrorists who attacked and killed those people in France.  I went on to explain that these few tyrants do not speak for the entirety of the Islam nation.  That throughout history, individuals have been bastardizing religion to fit their own agendas.  David Koresh of the Branch Davidians fancied himself as the second coming of Christ.  I don't know exactly what the f*ck Hitler's deal was, but he obliterated millions of Jews on some kind of religious and ethnic cleansing.  Both f*cking whack-jobs, to say the least.  Bin Laden was another psychopath and these latest fools, Said and Cherif Kouachi are no different.

It's written that to discourage idolatry of the Prophet Mohammed, that his image is strictly forbidden.  Any images of him, his face should be shrouded and covered.  I've heard it said that he was just a man and as such that he never wished for any praise that might take away from God.  Sounds noble, in it's essential simplicity.  I'm not a religious man, myself, nor have I ever claimed to be.  So, personally, I don't know what to believe.

What I do believe, however, is that these people, the religious fundamentalists, need to form a sense of humour.  The target of yesterday's blood bath in France, was a French satirical, low publication newspaper called Charlie Hebdo, which featured jokes, cartoons, polemics, and reports, in  an irreverent and stridently non-conformist tone.  They were notorious for featuring comical depictions of the Prophet Mohammed, a notoriety that was known the world over.  They also poked fun at Catholicism, Judaism, Islam, culture and politics.  Everything was published in fun and aimed to be anti-racist.  Basically, if you had a sense of humour, it'd make you laugh.  These sick f*cks, Said and Cherif, apparently don't have a sense of humour.  It's been my experience that people who can't laugh are inherently dangerous.

What makes this shit all the more heinous, news reports since this tragedy, seem to have minute by minute details on these two in the years leading up to their attack yesterday.  What I fail to understand is how is it possible that officials know what these monsters were up to before they attacked and killed twelve people in Paris, yesterday?  I'm literally scratching my head.

I know that the few don't represent the many.  I don't hold the entire Muslim community responsible, but for f*ck sake, these people aren't stupid.  We westerners can spot a crack-pot when we lay eyes on them.  Why can't the Muslim majority spot these nuts and single them out?  They have to know that by doing so, it'll paint themselves and the Nation of Islam in a more positive light.  They frown upon U.S. military putting boots on the ground and policing them.  So police yourselves and hand these f*ckers over.  Save yourselves.  Save everyone.  Let us all live in harmony.... and share a laugh or two.

It Goes To Show, You Never Can Tell

On November 30, 2014, a Sunday, the gentleman pictured above was witnessed robbing a Best Buy in Langley, British Columbia.  At knife point, he robbed the store of an XBox and a Playstation 4, and was seen departing with a white dude in a Caravan.  The assailant is described as an East Indian.

I don't really give a rat's ass about this f*cking crime.  It doesn't affect me one way or the other, but what does affect me, is that a "Facebook Friend" posted this news article, then when I made suggestions as to the apprehension of the fellow, I was blatantly called a racist!  This pisses me off!  No one's ever had the balls big enough to call me such a horrific name before.  Not ever.  While I do harbour some ill-will towards others, I wouldn't label it as racism.  I tend to hate everyone equally.  In the simplest of terms, if you're a f*cking idiot, then there's a good chance that I'm going to have a strong dislike for you.

So as to not dispute what I had written, I've copy and pasted my comment  here: Obviously he's Middle Eastern. Start checking all the mosques in the area. It's not racial profiling when you have photographic proof.  I fail to see how this would be construed as a "racist" comment, when all the facts point to my being correct.  She responded with the following:  It IS racial profiling when you are making the assumption that:  1. He's Middle Eastern, not Canadian, and 2. That you are assuming he's Muslim.

I'll kindly ask you not to post racist nonsense to my wall.

In her comment, plastered on her timeline, open to everyone to read, she claims that the fellow pictured above, is not of Middle Eastern decent, as I had described him;  However, if she had taken the time to actually read the f*cking news story that she had posted so prominently, she'd see that the suspect IS Middle Eastern.  I could give a shit if he was born in Canada, chances are he probably was, but it doesn't change his appearance any.

If she wants to call me an asshole, then fine.  I'm an asshole.  I can agree with that statement.  I'll own the fact that I'm an asshole.  This isn't news to me, nor would I consider it an insult.  I do, however, take great offense to being called something that I'm not.

Considering her past, I'm a little surprised at how easily she plays the name game.  I mean, I've never judged her on her transgressions.  When she lost so many friends over it, I was willing to look past and still maintain a degree of friendliness.  Perhaps I was wrong to befriend a thief.

As Chuck Berry says "It goes to show, you never can tell."  It looks like, to me, if I don't get a proper (public) apology, I may be deleting another "Facebook Friend".

If you currently reside in the Langley area and recognize this piece shit thief, and I mean the dude in the picture, please report via the following:

If anyone has any information that would assist police with this investigation, call Langley RCMP at: 604-532-3200. Should you need to remain anonymous, call CrimeStoppers:

Talk:   1-800-222-TIPS (8477)

Type:   www.solvecrime.ca

Text:   BCTIP and your message to CRIMES (274637)

Beef Not-So-Wellington

Have I been in a coma for six months or what?  When the hell did beef prices climb so astronomically?  A box of 8 or 12 frozen burgers that cost a mere $8 to $10 last spring, has seemingly sky-rocketed to prices orbiting the $18 mark.  That's freakin' outrageous by anyone's terms.

According to the internet, beef prices have gone up by only seventeen percent.  My calculations speculate that then the prices should only fluctuate by seventeen to twenty cents on the dollar.  Boosting prices by nearly 100%, doesn't add up, except for added dollars into the greedy hands of the grocery owners across North America.

I also read in a news report via the interweb, is that beef prices have been up for quite some time, however the community of grocers and butchers across the land, were charitable enough to quash the prices, allowing the savings to be (literally) eaten out of their profits.  They (allegedly) did so for nearly six months before the damn broke and they were forced to raise prices.  Judging from what it now costs for a box of eight burgers, they've marked up the prices enough to recover the monies lost during their "charitable" period.

In recent years, there's been a lot of drought.  These events cause a shortage of wheat, barley and all the other grains, in addition to reducing grazing lands for cattle.  Shortages then impressed higher demand, which induces higher costs, which impact already struggling beef and grain producers, which, on the whole, has caused the demise of many farmers in the world market, who had no other choice, but to sell off their herds and machinery.  Kind of a forced retirement, in a way.

It's documented that the herds of cattle, today herds are the lowest since 1973 (in Canada), and with the growing income of the middle class in developing countries, the demand for beef is greater than it's been in a long time.  The "from-the-hip" solution to simply "make more cattle" isn't as simple as it sounds.  It takes cattle 30 months to mature enough to go to butcher.  More than two years before demand can be met and prices can begin to come down.  Although personally, I doubt grocery prices will come down that much, once beef prices decrease.  Grocers have us all by the throat.  Everyone must eat and very few have the time or energy to grow-their-own, so "big" grocery can dictate whatever frickin' price they deem fit.  But I'm getting off topic.

Early next year (2016) is the projected date when, if all bricks fall into place, beef prices will begin to come down.  In the meantime, we, the consumers, must grin and bear it, shelling out hard earned cash for tasty cuts of bovine flesh.  Mmm. Bovine flesh.  Either that or become vegans, and frankly, that'll never fly.  Veganism turns you gay (I'm convinced).  Plus, hamburger tastes good.  Bacon tastes good.  Chicken tastes good.  Steak tastes good.  And don't get me started on lamb, but holy shit!!!  Lamb tastes AWESOME!!

The Undertaker -- Then & Now

I remember the first time I ever viewed The Undertaker, in what was then, the World Wrestling Federation (WWF).  He was this mysterious and ominous man who seemed like he couldn't be beaten by anyone in the ring.  No amount of offense seemed to affect "The Deadman".  Even though, as a young boy, I already knew professional wrestling to be of predetermined outcomes, his character, nevertheless, intimidated me.  Death, seemed to surround this menacing foe.  I, literally, feared The Undertaker.

Decades have passed, and the image of The Undertaker have changed with the times.  Each version, having more personality traits of Mark Callaway, the man behind the myth, bleeding into the updated interpretations of what and of whom The Undertaker was and is.

It was during his "American Badass" era, where his form resembles that of a biker more so than that of an old west mortician, is where my respect for the man really began to take shape.  As a long time superstar of the WWF, today known as the WWE, Callaway's role behind the scenes was one of a ring general.  Kind of a Captain of the team, so-to-speak.  One who led by example, and hopefully those under him, the newbies coming up the ranks, would fall in line.

The man today, paints another picture.  He's still same Undertaker he ever was, to some degree, though his role in the company has been dialing back in recent years.  He's not a young man, anymore.  I can speak from experience that the years can catch up to you, if you're not looking in the right direction.  Although, in 'Taker's case, he exercises and works out on a regular basis, and I haven't picked up a weight in years, unless you include my cat.  The Undertaker of today, differs greatly from the one introduced over twenty years ago.

I won't lie to you, though.  The man, Mark Callaway protrays in (and out of) the ring STILL scares me, however nowadays, my level of respect for him equals the level of fear I have for The Undertaker!