Good Morning Blow

Call me crazy, but sometimes there's nothing more satisfying than waking up and giving yourself a good strong healthy blow.  The kind of blow that really cleans out your entire system.  The kind of blow that following your evacuation into the tissue, you feel your innards tug and pull from deep in your chest.  A long gooey-stringy mess that is barely contained within the confinements of your tissue.  Call me crazy, but sometimes there's nothing more satisfying than giving yourself a good strong healthy blow.  Except the crusty ones that give you a nosebleed.

Those ones suck!

Green Jell-O

In an effort to figure out what the "black mass" is that was discovered on my lung a couple of years ago, I underwent a simple procedure called a 'Bronchoscopy' on Friday, that involved having a tube equipped with a camera and a couple other devices, shoved down my throat and into my airway and lungs.  I've underwent a similar procedure, the 'Gastroscopy', more than a dozen times due to choking and swallowing issues. It's a procedure that is normally performed with anesthesia, but I've been informed that I've built quite a reputation hospital-wide, as being the only one to get that procedure done while fully coherent.  I usually drive to the hospital when the obstruction occurs, so naturally I'm going to want to drive home.  I'd NEVER leave my truck overnight in THAT neighbourhood.

The bronchoscopy is a much more evasive procedure, I was led to believe.  It began, much like the gascoscopy, where I'm shuttled into a tiny little room, surrounded by more medical professionals with more credentials and job-titles than I can remember.  The doctor, a real hack because of her shitty attitude towards my case, hands me a shot glass filled with a red cherry-flavoured substance, designed to numb the inside of my mouth.  She instructs me to pour half in my mouth then gargle.  "Do you need us to show you how to gargle?" she added, as if I'm a complete imbecile, but apparently, I was informed, there's a lot of people who don't know how to gargle fluid.  F*ck sakes, how stupid are people becoming, that they don't know how to 'gargle'?  I swished the concoction around like a true gargling champion, if there was ever such a thing.  Another freezing agent was then sprayed into the back of my throat to numb that region up, the reason being that it'd relax the region enough to receive an injection from a syringe.  Before that was to happen, one of the nameless other medical professionals sidled up to the gurney that I sat upon with two syringes filled with a clear fluid.  "This is a little something to help you relax." she said, with a soothing tone.  I watched as she injected the specimens into my intravenous tube.

"Now we're talking!" I said, gleefully, laying back on the gurney.  Just then I noticed the spots in the suspended ceiling tiles begin to spin frantically, the image resembling one of those hypnotic spiral posters you see at the carnival.  "Wow," I said, "This stuff really acts qui-"

That's all I remember.

Years ago, I tore my left bicep "clean off the bone", as the surgeon told me, the following day, after my operation.  I was, obviously, anesthetized for that procedure as well, as you can probably imagine.  I don't know how well my body reacts to being under anesthetic, because I heard a story from a friend who claims that I shared a hospital room with her ailing grandfather, who was none too pleased with the wailing coming from my side of the room.  I can't speak as to the accuracy of this claim, but there's no reason to embellish the situation.  Plus, from what I do recall from the experience, was repeated visits from the nurse-on-call, who'd come in and pump me full of morphine.  I don't completely understand the concept of addiction, but being on morphine provided a good argument.  So when I began to come out of my induced coma after getting tubes, cameras and other devices shoved down my throat and into my lungs, the process was, as I recall, as loud as it was confusing.

All I can remember from yesterday morning, following the procedure, was a strong desire for Jell-O.  I remember begging and pleading with the nurses in the section to bring me some Jell-O.  "I know you have Jell-O," I called out, "I've had it here before."  They declined the request, but offered me something to drink, instead.  Coffee, tea, orange juice or apple juice, were the options.  "No!" I demanded, "Jell-O!  I'll even take the green jell-o that nobody likes.  I know you have it!  Please bring me some."

Nicole, the prettier and younger nurse of the gaggle, approached me and softly gave me the list of options, again.  I softly responded, "I find coffee is gross.  Tea makes me pee too much.  I'm allergic to citrus, so orange juice is out.  And apple juice, I find, tastes like the afore mentioned 'pee', but I'll take some of that green jell-o you gals are hiding."

I continued for the next twenty minutes or so, pushing the green jell-o agenda, but the girls wouldn't budge.  Finally, it came time where I was coherent enough to leave the hospital, so walking on rubbery legs, I left the small second floor day-surgery locale and met my ride who brought me home.

I never did get my jell-o, sadly.  What does strike me as odd, however, is: If everybody hates green jell-o, why does it continually get made?  I've never once, in all my visits to cafeterias where jell-o was offered, have I ever heard someone excitedly say, "Ooh, good!  Green jell-o."  Always, 'ew, there's only green jell-o left'.

The woozy affect of the anesthetic.

Handsy

Why is it necessary that rappers
always wave their hands about,
with every emphasis of every word?

Even Eminem does that crazy shit!!

Day-am!!

There's not a lot that I have to look forward to in life.  Being a single guy, all I have that puts a smile on my face is my truck, my car and my TV remote.  Outside my home, I have friends, of course, I'm not a complete recluse, but when I'm at home, it's essentially those three things, sprinkled with the comedic antics of my boy, Monkey.  I also love getting mail, although it's mostly bills and reminders that I need to pay bills that occupy my mailbox.  However, on Wednesdays and Fridays , is when the fliers and coupons arrive.  These are the days when my ears perk up and find a little dance in my step.

I love to slowly and methodically look through my fliers with a black marker or highlighter pen in hand, circling everything that I want to go look at or purchase for that week.  Suffice it to say, when I was employed full time, this was a real treat, as opposed to the last few months where circling things is an admission of a virtual pipe dream, if I bother perusing that flier at all.  Most times, now, I'm discarding favourite fliers rather than teasing myself with wishful thinking.

So when suddenly the steady flow of fliers came to a complete halt, disappearing as quickly and as mysteriously as the dinosaurs.  Like a sad puppy staring out the window for it's master, I found myself constantly scanning the street for a lonely soul pulling a cart filled with tightly wound fliers.  Believing a watched kettle never boils, I tried to occupy my time with something else, coming back to check my mailbox infrequently, only to close the front door with sullen despair.

Finally I'd had enough heartbreak and disappointment and sent a stern email to the local newspaper, the authority responsible for sending out the fliers in the first place.  A short time later, not only did I find the fliers stuffed into my mailbox, but now I notice that someone drives to my house specifically, to hand deliver the fliers early in the morning, opposed to the evening time, like before.  Looks like I got me some pull.  Day-am!!!

Hammer Thumb

People are always criticizing poor Megan Fox about her thumbs. Hammer thumbs, they call them and while they are quite unattractive, they shouldn't discount the fact that she is one of the hottest women on the planet.  The bullying comments, of course, usually made by people who would never stand a chance with the Hollywood starlet, even if she weren't already married with children.

That's not what this entry is about, though.  The subject matter refers to Hammer vs Thumb and no!  It's not a wrestling match set for this year's Wrestlemania.  When I turned the television on this afternoon, there was a home improvement type show ending.  Hometime has been on TV for a number of years, it's host, Dean Johnson always at the helm offering sound advice for any potential Do-It-Yourself'er.  I've not seen the program in years, but I recall that Johnson's co-host was a woman named 'Robin', whom I assumed was his wife, given their onscreen chemistry.  So this morning as Johnson and his co-host, also named 'Johnson' (Miriam), a much much younger individual, I immediately thought, "Dean you old dog!  You traded up!"  Apparently, Johnson is an extremely popular name, as she is not his young wife nor is she even related to him.

I've always been a fan of these home improvement style shows, even though I lack the confidence to tackle any job myself.  Hell, I had my best friend change the inner guts of my toilet for me earlier this week.  I did tackle changing a light fixture when I was remodeling my condominium nearly a decade ago, and nearly electrocuted myself in the process.  Granted, it's extremely difficult to electrocute one's self changing the flapper in a toilet, but if there's a will, there's a way.

I faithfully watch all kinds of home improvement programs, but lost sight of Hometime quite a few years ago due to it's constant jumping around channels and time scheduling.  What I do recall, most blatantly, of this particular show, was a mishap that host Dean Johnson had.

I'm certain that accidents happen on the job all the time.  Especially with a camera crew trampling about, distraction has to be a definite constant.  However, with most injury, the camera rarely captures the accident, or at the very least, human reaction is left on the cutting room floor, but on this occasion, it was included in the show.  I speculate that Johnson's arrogant attitude was a contributing factor in producers choosing to include his angry outburst following his clobbering his thumb with his hammer.

Looking at the camera and explaining his method, he lost concentration for a split second, catching his thumb between the plain and his swinging hammer.  He screamed in pain and unleashed a barrage of swears, angrily throwing his hammer across the work site.  He held his throbbing thumb with his free hand as camera followed him wandering about looking for first aid, barely stopping his cursing and swearing long enough to catch his breath.  That episode of Hometime included nearly everything  in that aftermath.

I don't recall much of anything regarding that episode and if memory serves, it wasn't long after that that the show became more and more difficult to locate.  Obviously, shit worked out for him.  As far as I could tell, today, he still has to opposable thumbs... and a hot little sidekick.  Miriam Johnson is in no way nearly as hot as Megan Fox, but I guess she has normal thumbs.  As for Megan Fox and her 'hammer thumbs', they're not an issue as far as I'm concerned.  If any of us schlubs ever had a chance with the sexy actress, I'm sure we could convince her to wear gloves, but why bother?  I mean, look at this chick!!  Just look at her!! HOT!

Karma is a Pain In The Ass

It is granted that I'm not active by any sense of the word, though lately, I've been leaving the house and getting out in the world more frequently than I was a few months ago, even though I'm essentially a glorified purse holder for my gal pal, Melissa.  She would argue that I purchase as often as she does, but her regular haunts are hardly places where I would freely purchase wares.

Usually a few hours out and about, results in my legs cramping up and my back getting unusually sore.  In January of 2014, I injured my spine really bad, an injury that left me with three compression fractures in three different vertebrae.  My T3, 4 and 5 were broke with patterns that reminded me of a spider web or a smashed car window.  I was reassured by medical professionals that I had nothing to worry about.  That there was little or no chance of any rogue pieces splintering off and dissecting my spinal cord.  Trusting their word, I continued to live life, albeit a lot more subdued.  Not that I was B.A.S.E. jumping or racing dune buggies, but my options, I felt, were limited after that.

After finishing treatment from my lovely physiotherapist, Elissa, I was unemployed and left to recover from other injuries sustained from my fall on the job.  Money being limited, I stayed pretty close to home, choosing to live vicarious adventure through heroes and characters viewed on my television set, rather than venturing into extracurricular activities.  I'd still go for walks in the park, with my boy, Monkey, just for a change of scenery, beneficial to him as well as myself, but mostly I stuck close to home.  My back never gave me much issue.  No overindulgence equaled very little, if any, pain and discomfort. 

Winter came, and unfortunately, my snow blower still won't start [*Boycott: Home Depot], resulting with my having to clear my two-and-a-half driveway (meaning I have room for two automobiles across plus space for a small RV).  It's a back-breaking process, excuse the pun.  Lately, with the abundant snowfall we've received, I've opted to only clearing a path from the street to my front door, in addition to the city walk in front of my house.  The last time I tackled that endeavour, was midway last week.  My back had stiffened, but hardly gave me issue.  Yesterday, my sixty-eight year old mother came to my house for supper, but before coming into the house, unbeknownst to me, she took it upon herself to clear a respectable patch of snow and ice and did so in half the time it takes me to do a patch half as wide.

It wasn't until her actions caught the attention of my cat, that I became aware of her actions.  I'm appreciative, but rushed outside to scold her of her actions.  She's sixty-eight years old, for f*ck sake.  A sixty-eight year old, who recently informed me that she requires a hip replacement.  What the f*ck is she thinking?  She reluctantly let go of the shovel and went inside, as I replaced the road salt that had been flung onto my snow covered lawn, an action that should reveal some interesting patterns of murdered grass, come springtime.

We watched a couple movies that she'd not seen before and had, what she described, was a tasty supper, before she left for home.  I laid down on the sofa, like I've done a thousand times before, over my eight year tenure at this address.  I chose a previously recorded show to watch and fell asleep, like usual.  About four hours later, I woke up with a desperate need to pee.  I expected to jump up and rush across the living room, but instead, I experienced a sharp shooting pain down my spine.  A blistering shot that is reminiscent of the early days that followed my initial injury.  There was no mad rush, but a slow painful hobble.

The great deal of discomfort I've felt in the hours that have passed, is unimaginable.  I'm hunched, fighting to straighten up to walk upright.  Sleeping was a little better, being that my mattress is ideal for sore ailing backs, and without a pillow under my head, was able to sleep in.  I'm walking a little more upward than I was last night and with a greater pace.  Getting up and mobilized is incredibly sore, however.  I'm hoping this recent flare-up is due to a sudden and dramatic drop in outside temperature, the barometric pressure wreaking havoc on old injured bones.  Especially, given that I need to go for a physical regarding this new job I'm trying out for.

I don't believe in luck, but I do believe in karma.  I don't know what I did in this life or what anyone could have done in a past life, to deserve as much bullshit as I've endured in this life, but holy f*ck!!!  When is enough going to be enough.

Mmm. Cake!

My friend Dan and I went for a tasty treat on Monday.  He was craving a Turtles encrusted Blizzard ice cream treat from Dairy Queen, where as I was likely to get the regular crushed Smarties.  However, discovering the Red Velvet Cake Blizzard on arrival, we both opted for that one.  Dan never cared for his as much as he loves his Turtles.  Having a peanut/nut allergy, my choices are pretty grim and basic, at best, but I loved the Red Velvet treatment.  So much so, I stopped for another today.

I must love the creamy taste of the treat as the price on this sucker is a gargantuan $7.  Way more than a cheapskate, like myself, is usually willing to shell out for any sort of treat, let alone an ice cream / cake concoction, yet here I am.  Taking small scoops between typing breaks, savouring all that the desert has to offer.  Mmm.  Creamy cake....

A common practice at all Dairy Queens before they hand over your thick ice cream delight, they have to turn it upside-down, to ensure it's thickness.  After so many years, I don't know why they continue to do this, but they do and well....  Mmm.  Creamy!  Whatever floats their boat, is fine with me.  Today, when the gal did it, I felt it necessary to share an experience a number of years ago at another location.

It was the girl's first night of working at Dairy Queen.  I believe her name was Courtney or Whitney or one of those "Tney" names.  She was cute as a button and what transpired only increased how adorable she was.  I'd ordered my usual Smarties Blizzard and with her trainer at her side, the mixing of the product was done completely up to DQ standards.  Only, when she turned around to present me with the fine refreshment, she flipped it upside-down, as per the practice, but the ice cream and the crushed morsels of Smartie, all vacated the cup, splashing down on the tiled floor with a tremendous SPLAT!

She was visibly panicked and horrified.  Here she was, on her first shift of her new job, making a splash of another kind.  She was nearly on the brink of tears, thinking that I was going to be upset, but was taken aback with my actual response.  I started clapping and thanking her.  I was very encouraging.  "I've ordered these things for years and I've always wanted to see one fall out of the cup!  Now I have!  Thank you for fulfilling my dream."

She seemed to relax from that, even cracking a nervous smile, while her workmates burst out laughing all around her.  She was quickly presented with a mop and bucket to clean up the sticky mess, while another, more experienced gal made my replacement Blizzard.

I got the girl's name and I did email the Corporate Office for Dairy Queen, and commended Courtney or Whitney or whatever her name was, on a job well-done.  I thoroughly enjoyed my visit on that occasion.  And I got to see what, I'd imagine, very few are ever privileged to see.

These Red Velvet Cake Blizzards are delightful. Mmm. Cake!  It's like eating a sweet cloud, but Holy Christ!!  I just sneezed and everything came out red.  That's a scary thought if you're not ready for it.

Road Rage

Years ago, I was stopping off at one of the big box grocers along 8th Street E, in Saskatoon.  I was in the right hand lane, signaling to turn into the parking lot, when this copper-coloured streak blew past me and turned into the same approach I was planning on entering.  I blew my horn in protest, as I often had previous to that occasion and have done so, since.  Thinking nothing more of it, I followed the car around and found a parking spot to my liking.  The driver of the copper Oldsmobile did as well, parking adjacent to where I was located.  I stepped out of my little blue car and stepped toward his direction, looking up in time to notice the man, enraged, storming towards me.  A clear case of road rage.  I guess, he didn't care for my honking the horn, despite his blatantly being in the wrong.

He threw a plethora of colourful language at me, as a precursor to striking at me with either of the clenched fists at flailing at his sides.  Normally, when confronted with such a situation, the bullied child in me, chooses to flee or crumple into a ball, but on this occasion I addressed the situation in a calm collected manner.

With a heavy sigh, I spoke softly to the man, saying, "Sir.  I would be more than happy to kick your ass for you, if that's indeed what you want, but think about your child."  I pointed to his car, where a lone child was looking out the back window at their father.  "If I kick your ass in front of your child, they will never respect you again.  They'll always look back on that time that their father was beaten down in a Superstore parking lot." I explained.  "Might I suggest you climb back in the car and safe face with your child. Be the bigger man."

He seemed to calm down, trading glanced between me and his child.  Clenched fists were soon relaxed and he calmly returned to his car.  I breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he drove out of the parking lot, as this dude was big and undoubtedly would have turned me into a crimson stain on the asphalt.

The Brighter-Brights Are On, But Nobody's Home

My roommate's name when I was in university, was Kevin.  Kevin was dumb as shit.  He was taking commerce or something in college, and I'm sure he was "book smart", but when it came to common sense, Kevin was one dumb motherf**ker.  There were a couple of times when his car wouldn't start, which required me to bring my car around to him to provide him a boost.  I was none too bothered to extend such a favour, presuming that he'd reciprocate sometime down the line.  One brisk winter evening, I went to my car to leave for an errand, and the car would not start.  I needed a boost and never hesitated to call in a favour.  Kevin abruptly denied me the favour, stating he did not wish chancing damage to the computer on his car.  If there was a computer to be damaged, it likely would have already done so during the half dozen boosts I gave him.  Besides, his car was so old, that I doubt there was a computer in it.  It was on this day, that my great dislike for the French, was born.

I've known a few French people in my distinguished life, most of which are smart folks.  French-by-name-only, is how I refer to those people.  Kevin was French through-and-through.  One of those French people who would swear in French, when they'd lose their temper.  He never lost his temper very often, likely due to his being so dense in the head.

I remember one time, he got me into his little red car and was showing me the headlights.  He was so enthusiastic and enthralled with the mystery bestowed upon him.  "Look!" he said, excitedly, turning the ignition key.  "My headlights come on automatically."  I was quite unimpressed, as daytime running lights were a dime a dozen.  Most modern cars, from that era of automobile, came with DRL as standard equipment.

Then Kevin switched on his headlamp button.  "Now, they're bright."  I nodded, muttering, "Bright-er."  Then he flicked the headlamp lever on his steering column, "And now they're brighter bright!  My car has two brights."  I was speechless, sitting quietly trying to comprehend if Kevin was being facetious or if he was, in fact, that f*cking stupid!  The jury is still out on that, I'm afraid.

However, in the years since then, I don't believe the theory of brighter-bright lights was reserved to Kevin, exclusively.  I have, on more than one occasion, nearly struck cars and trucks from behind on roads shrouded in total darkness, all because they were operating their vehicles with their daytime running lights only, which does not engage the tail lights of the vehicle.  Being stupid in this manner, is one thing when operating within the city limits.  It's dangerous, still, but at least there are street lamps raining down streams of light, so everyone can see you, but in the middle of nowhere, you're gambling with, not just your life, but those of your passengers and anyone else, sharing the road with you.

The Daytime Running Light (DRL) is actually your bright light setting, only it's operating at a fraction of it's full capacity, 60%, if I'm not mistaken, which is still less bright than you headlamps at full capacity.  DRL are meant to boost you visibility on open road.  I recall, the campaign when I was just a toddler.  "Lights On For Life" was the phrasing, suggesting that anyone and everyone turn on their headlamps for daytime driving.  Many balked at the premise, but soon whistled another tune when it was proven to reduce daytime incidents.  This was a logic lost on the Americans, however.

Standard daytime running lights were available, I believe, in Canada before they were in the U.S.  I remember the American commercials when DRL did eventually become the norm there.  "Excuse me.  Your headlights are on." people would snicker in the commercials of the day, before a brief tutorial would follow.  Not surprising that safety would come to the Yanks so late in life.  They've only began a "Click-It-Or-Ticket" campaign, enforcing seat belt use.
Duh!! Seat belts save lives...

The biggest loss to our culture due to DRL, though, is not our common sense, but the beauty of the drive-in theater.  I used to go to the drive-in all the time.  I especially enjoyed the early spring or late autumn showings.  There weren't a lot of people going and it was cool enough outside that I could leave some cans of soda outside and they'd stay nicely chilled.  It being so chilly out, though, that it was necessary for people to start up their vehicles to defrost foggy windshields or just heat up the cabin of their car.  With daytime running lights, as soon as the engine came on, so did the headlights.  Granted, engaging the emergency brake, would disengage the running lamps, but this was an inconsistent option on vehicles and manufacturers.  Not to mention that not many people knew that fact.  Hell, if they can't figure out that their cars didn't possess brighter-brights, how could they figure out the emergency brake.?

Daytime Running Lights save lives, but unfortunately a lot of the lives saved are for dumb-f*ck's like Kevin.  The brighter-brights are on, but nobody's home.

Carol

I'm taking my truck in for the fourth windshield replacement.  I don't know what it is about these Honda Ridgelines.  Of all the trucks I've ever been involved with, this truck is over all, superior to most.  Granted I can't haul huge loads and the box is smaller than most, but if you're looking for the most bang for you buck, you can't go wrong with the Honda Ridgeline, and because of some of it's limitations, friends and family are going to be less likely to request help when moving.  That's a huge plus, in my books.  It's a unibody design, has all the get-up-and-go that a sports car half it's size possesses and the amenities inside are a dream.  There's a huge trunk in the bed of the box, which come complete with drain holes, so you can fill it with ice and keep your beverages cool while at the beach or tailgating.  The truck, like I said, is an absolute delight.  Superior to most on the road, except for that blasted windshield.  There has to be a flaw in the design, because how can I go through so many windshields in the seven years that I've owned it.

A single stone chip, cascades into a full blown crack, from stem to stern.  In this most recent case, I picked up a stone chip nearly two weeks ago, and the crack erupted nearly right away, spreading from near the passenger side edge, clear across the bottom of the windshield, then upwards, dissecting my line of sight, straight into the driver's side pillar.  I've driven the truck like this for just over a week, so I'm taking it in Thursday morning to have the windshield replaced.

I'm told that the process will take about four hours to complete.  They offered me a ride home, but I'm opting instead to meet a friend for breakfast and maybe shoot about town, time permitting.  She calls me her shopping buddy and if it's an excuse to get out of the house for a few hours, she can call me whatever she wants.

I contacted her and she agreed to meet up.  "It's a date." I replied, quick to add, "Not a real date."  She's one to take things in a literal sense, so I need to be on my toes to combat her first instincts.  She's a looker, I'll giver her that credit, but I'm not so lucky that I get to spend time with attractive females.  Especially, any that would find me appealing.

She "L.o.L'd" and commented that she'd help me with a dating profile one day.  I kiboshed that idea right away.  I've tried those sites in the past and have had nothing but scathing bad luck with them.  The worst of which is the true inspiration for this blog entry.  CAROL.

I don't remember a lot about Carol, except all the negativity.  I'm sure in time, she would've come to be a pleasant person and less psychotic, but that's not a gamble I'd wish to take with anyone.  I've battled psychotic in the past (Terri), and that's a twisted road I don't wish to trek again for a very long time, if ever.

The profiles on these dating sites need to be honest and forthright.  Some embellishment is understandable.  I told the truth about myself, but used a picture of the ECW wrestler, Tommy Dreamer, because someone once told me I looked a little like him.  Of course, someone else told me I looked a little like Julian from The Trailer Park Boys, so their credibility is up in the air.  Carol, on the other hand took great artistic license in her description of herself.

First of all, she said she was athletic.  She worked out daily and was physically fit, although she was a bigger sized girl.  As I'm no prize winning pig, either, I can look past such trifling.  Next she described that she was a health nut.  She never mentioned being a vegan, so we were two-for-two.  She was a nurse, which means a meaningful employment.  That's a good sign.

We exchanged telephone numbers and chatted for about a week or so before agreeing to meet for breakfast.  I came to her apartment door in an old masonry building near downtown, and the person I had pictured in my head for a number of weeks, was not the person who stood across the threshold from me.  Her polar opposite, in fact.

She was athletic much in the same way a sumo wrestler would be considered an athlete.  She did workout daily, as had claimed, but it was only to walk to the bus stop at the end of the block, where she rode the remaining five or six blocks to the hospital where she was employed.  She had a treadmill in her livingroom that held multiple plastic-wrapped cases of two-liter bottles of Diet Pepsi, which was the only contributor to the healthy diet that I saw any evidence of.  I'm sure the most liberal of dietitians would still disagree that potato chips and pretzels are not a part of a healthy diet.

She lived alone in the one bedroom apartment, but there had to be at least three half filled ashtrays lining the route from the front door to the living room.  The apartment was disheveled with clothing sprawled and strewn everywhere.  "I'm glad she cleaned up for company." I quietly joked to myself.

She was a huge mess.  A joy to speak with on the phone, but now in person, she seemed like a totally different person.  She was wearing nothing but tight yoga-style pants and a sports bra, as it that was a real article of clothing to be going out for breakfast in, but like I said, I'm not prize winner either, so giving her the benefit of the doubt, off to breakfast we went.

She sat across from me, devouring her breakfast like a hyena tearing into the carcass of a wildebeest.  It was not a pretty sight.  There was, literally, food flying about the table.  If I'd had reached over, I'm sure I would have lost a finger or two.  I'm not sure if she was grunting at all, but for the sake of the story, let's agree that she was.  I'll say this much for Carol, she was not healthy by any means of the definition, but she sure as f**k had a healthy appetite.  I can't recall what exactly it was that she'd ordered, other than it cost a small fortune and it put her in a right randy mood.

No sooner had we returned to her tiny little apartment, but she was ready to go, if you know what I mean.  I, on the other hand, was not.  I was tempted only in the fact that it'd been a long time between physical interactions, but I was not ready to venture down that road.  I told her straight out, "I do not have protection," in hopes that this would dissuade her from any advancements.  I figured being a health professional that would be enough.  "No probs!" she said with glee, "I'm on the pill."  I can't imagine why she'd bother being on birth control.  Watching her eat, alone, would suffice as birth control.

She was determined, though, to get a piece of Jeff, going so far as to block the path to the door, but I was determined too.  I insisted that she allow me to go to the nearby 7-11 to purchase condoms.  This proved distraction enough to allow me to flee.  Thankfully, she never knew where I lived and despite some hateful phone messages, she finally abated her assault when I lied to her, telling her it was her smoking that was the deal breaker.

I have not intention of pursuing the affections of another via the dating site avenue.  I'd much rather hang out with friends and meet some lovely single woman that way.  Unfortunately, all my friends have either gal pals who are in relationships or are borderline psychotic.  No thanks!  I've sailed that ship and I bailed out in time to avoid a total meltdown of the nuclear reactor. 

Bolorado

Bugbear

Do you know what the speed limit is within a parking lot?  Would it surprise you to know that it is 15 kilometers per hour?  I think I am one of the only people to, not only know this fact, but who practices it also.  Yet people on foot, will constantly run in front of or behind my vehicle then turn to chastise me for "moving too quickly".  These are usually the same culprits who will then climb into their vehicle and speed out of the parking lot at a velocity of sixty or seventy kilometers per hour.  These people are among the many pet peeves that seem to plague my everyday life.

A "pet peeve" is described as: A particular and often continual annoyance; A personal bugbear.

My life seems riddled with pet peeves, the afore is a minor one.  Though it seems to occur upon almost every visit to the nearby Home Depot, it has little or no effect on me, personally, but has become tiresome, all the same.

I've tweeted my major peeves, which have been commented on as being shared by many.  The most frequent being that I will sit through a barrage of annoyingly repetitive commercials only to realize that the program I'm watching is recorded.  Even with the remote control in hand, my thumb placed firmly over the fast-forward button, I will often mutter profanity to myself about the irritating commercials, all the while forgetting to depress the button under my opposable digit.

Another exasperation of mine is sitting down to watch a program, whether it a mere sixty minutes in length or a movie that is more than a couple of hours long, and falling asleep.  I'd prefer to see the show in it's entirety, avoiding revisitation.  Earlier today, it happened to me twice while watching the (Christopher Nolan) Batman Trilogy.  The movies are not boring in the least, yet I found myself slipping into deep slumber about an hour into each movie, only having to skip back ninety minutes to rewatch the full movie.  This also occurs whenever I sit down to watch any of the Star Wars movies, although I rarely bother going back to watch the full stories over again.

Probably one of the biggest pet peeves I have, nowadays, isn't one that's come into fruition until as of late.  It does not occur very often, yet when it does, it sends me spiraling.  It has occurred when I'm climbing into my vehicle.  When I'm climbing into bed and (earlier tonight) settling down on the sofa to watch a movie.  Breaking wind.  A split-second before I plant myself firmly in my seat, a minor fart will slip out.  Minor in it's simplicity, yet major enough to almost bring me to tears.  The smell nearly harsh enough to drop a moose out of the sky.

I know not the recent exuberance of flatulence, but I suspect it may largely have to do with the ingestion of tomato-based foods.  I did have pizza yesterday and lasagna today.  Decrease the intake of such foods and I'll be less likely to fart on myself.  So better consciousness of my surroundings and my pet peeves will likely decrease.  If only it were so easy...

Five Year Plan

When I was a child, it was called "Baby Steps", indicating the series of stages required to achieve a life's ambition.  "If I do this to acquire that, I can then move on to this, doing the other, which will eventually get me to this point, where upon then, I will reach euphoria."  Perhaps, I am being too cynical, but the whole lot seems a little too presumptuous.  As in, how do I know (now) I'd be happy doing that for the rest of my life?  I'm just a dumb kid, after all.

I've never been one for goal-setting, and given my lot in life, the assumption has probably been proven false a dozen times over, but realistically, I've never put much weight in wishful thinking. The same goes for vision boards.  A sorry excuse to cut and glue pictures of other people's shit onto particle board, with crossed fingers that we'll one day own them.  Absolute silliness, in my opinion.

For some reason, though, the Five Year Plan seems to be a serious mainstay in our culture, a factor that I balk at and shudder over, every time it is mentioned in a serious conversation.  It's such a preposterous premise that I've never seriously considered concocting a response, believable enough, to blow smoke up the ass of a potential employer.  How the Hell am I supposed to know where I'm going to want to maneuver myself within your company, if I've not been associated with your company?  Wanting to sound ambitious without being overzealous to the point of being offensive.  "Well, I'd like to be your boss..."

I was posed this question, on Friday, in an over-the-phone interview.  Thankfully, my potential employer was unable to see me flinch at the stupid question and I was able to respond quickly. "Being unfamiliar with your organization, I couldn't make an honest and organized guess as to where I would like to be in five years.  If you decide that I'm a good fit for _____, I'd prefer to look at the opportunities available in order to decide where I'd like to go.  If I'm content in the position that I'm hired for, I don't see why I'd need to move beyond that.  As long as I'm happy, I don't see why change is necessarily a good thing."

I must have provided an adequate amount of smoke to be blown up her ass, as I was commended on such a good and honest answer, comparing it to a stream of water poured from a glass: You never know what the resulting path will be, but it always makes it to the end.

Honestly.  If the truth be revealed, I've always had one goal for a Five Year Plan.  It seems foolish, comparative more to a pipe dream or fantasy than anything based in reality, but it's no more far-fetched than constructing a vision board.  Where would I like to be in five years, you ask?  The same place as I'd like to find myself come this Tuesday.  Posing in front of a camera, with a giant check in my hand, and a congratulations on being the newest lottery winner in Saskatchewan. 

Fur Babies

As I flipped through my Facebook this afternoon, I came across a posting from Kevin Smith announcing the passing of his beloved pet, his "son", Mulder after 17 years of unconditional love and companionship.  My heart goes out to him in this time of sadness.  Not only because I'm a fan of Kevin's, but as an animal lover and a pet owner myself.  In the backs of our minds, as pet owners, we all know that we'll eventually have to bid farewell to our "fur babies", but somehow we tuck it away until it eventually comes to fruition, becoming overwhelmed with sadness, instead of preparing for it.

When I chose to adopt my boy, Monkey, I had to mentally prepare myself for that inevitable end.  I thought I could handle it, but since he came to live with me, nearly five years ago, I've come to realize that when that day comes, I'm going to be a complete wreck.  I love that cat more than I do anyone or anything else in the entire world.  I can only hope that he lives to be seventeen or eighteen years young, if not longer.

I recall as a young boy, my cousin getting himself an Irish Setter.  He named it "Sarge", which is a name he'd chosen years before and though (in my opinion) the name never suited the brownish red dog, his name was Sarge and that was that.  Sarge was "technically" my cousin's dog, but Sarge took to my uncle more.  All about the small town, my uncle could be seen driving his pick-up truck and there was Sarge, stoically riding shotgun.  That pick-up truck belonged to my uncle, but it also belonged to Sarge.  So much so, in fact, that no one could approach the truck when my uncle wasn't around.  No one including my cousin, the dog's rightful owner.

Eventually, my cousin grew older and left home, pursuing life's ambitions outside that small northern Saskatchewan town, leaving Sarge behind with my uncle.  They were virtually inseparable for his remaining years and eventually Sarge would pass away, leaving my uncle heartbroken.  The years since his passing, the subject of getting another dog has come up only to be stifled by my uncle, on the basis that he did not wish to go through the experience of losing another beloved pet.  I never fully understood that thought process until my boy came into my life.  Now I'm not sure I could ever replace him when he shuffles off this mortal coil.

My cat drives me nuts some days, from his nonsensical bawling to repeatedly leaving morsels of food scattered around the house or streams of projected vomit.  I've got an assortment of stains in my carpet that vaguely resemble the spots on a leopard's hide and deep scratches stretched across all my leather furniture and oak banisters, but truth be known, I would not trade a single annoyance for anything.  Every facet that drives me nuts, is also endearing to me.  Like I said before, I love that boy more than I do anything or anyone in my life.  Gun to my head, if I had to choose between my cat and the life of a (human) loved one, I can honestly say I don't know.  I'd probably choose my cat, as he's never deserted me, shunned me, judged me or given up on me.  The love of a pet is unconditional.  That means no matter what, they love you, where as I've found with my human counterparts, there's ALWAYS a condition.

For now, I'm going to enjoy every minute of every day of every week, month, year and (hopefully) decades of my time with that cat.  And if you're a pet owner, might I suggest you do the same.  I know that's what Kevin Smith has done with his pets and though his loss today seems insurmountable, he'll survive.  He's a strong fellow, who inspires me everyday in ways that I'm, consciously, not even fully aware of.  My heart goes out to him today.  CREDITS!

*The picture above is of Kevin Smith embracing Mulder.*
I dedicate this blog to them and to all pet owners who embrace the love of a pet.

Unjust

Yesterday afternoon I stopped off at a nearby confectionery to check some lottery tickets I had.  I tend to gather a number of them before checking for winners, rather than racing the the lotto kiosk after every draw.  I used the self-checker and found that I only had two winning tickets out of the ten or so I brought in, and those were only worth two dollars each, just enough to pay for a ticket for this Wednesday's draw which I believe may be around $7M.  While waiting in line to pay for my goods and grab a new ticket, there was a little Filipino guy behind me, muttering about who-knows-what.  His accent was thick and I really didn't give a crap anyway.  The only words that I did understand from his garbled speech was "thank you" when I ushered him to another til ahead of myself.  I was nearly at the cash register in the line that I was in, so I didn't mind if he moved ahead of me and another till.

No sooner had I handed over my two winning tickets to collect the four bucks to cover the cost of my new ticket, than I overheard that same polite fellow begin freaking out at the checkout clerk helping him out.  Apparently, he too, was cashing in a lottery ticket.  His was a scratch ticket, however, and worth (from what I gathered) $10,000.  She explained to him repeatedly that he had to cash a large sum ticket with the Lottery Commission, and that such a substantial amount of money could not be awarded from a business like this, nor would it be safe for him to carry out a large sum of money like ten grand, but he would have none of that explanation.  It seemed, as if, they more clearly she explained, the angrier and the worse his accent got.  By the time I was gathering up my goods to leave, this man was as coherent as the Tasmanian Devil and just about as riled up, too.

I don't know how to word this next part without making myself sound like a total asshole, but I'll give it a whirl.  It's not his behavior that offends me in this scenario, but the mere fact that HE won that kind of money and I'm still cashing in free tickets and two dollar paydays.  This guy is "fresh off the boat", so to say, and I've lived here all my life.  I mean, they guy is still wet behind the ears practically, and I've more than paid my dues, so-to-speak.  I've lived in this country, freezing my ass off every winter, getting blasted by intolerable heat in the summers.  I've broken bones, tore muscle, and had teeth smashed out of my head, but I get a couple of bucks from playing the lotto, while this insensitive prick from half way around the world, steps off the plane, buys a lottery ticket and wins ten grand.  Then adding insult to injury, pisses and moans about having to wait until the next day to go cash the ticket in, via the usual methods.  Somebody ought to kick his ass, on principle only.  If I were a lesser person with loose morals, I would have done it and stolen his ticket.  Except I'm more civilized than that.  Plus, I don't look like a Pereira or a de la Cruz...

Bare Ass Beach

Currently, I should be tidying my house up in preparation for an evening of friends coming for treats and to play board games, instead of typing away at yet another blog.  However, when the inspiration hits me, I find it particularly difficult to put the creative process on hold.  Besides, the words should come flowing quite easily, as the idea is so fresh in my mind.

I purchased a new board game a few weeks back and have had it open, though I never really perused the rules too closely, so I haven't the foggiest idea on how to actually play it.  The game is based on a television game show of the same name.  "The Moment of Truth" aired on FOX and was hosted by a fellow by the name of Mark L. Walberg; And no...  It's not THAT Mark Walberg famous for "Boogie Nights", "Planet of the Apes" or "Ted", but his doppelganger, by name only.   This Mark Walberg would sit across from a contestant and ask questions which the participant would have to answer truthfully.  If there was any doubt to their answer, they'd be hooked up to a lie detector.  The show lasted only three seasons, but the number of relationships that were permanently damaged by being on the show, was much higher than that.

So I'm kind of shuffling through some of the cards, reading the odd question.  Doing so shouldn't affect the outcome, should we wish to play it later.  Questions range from the mundane like "Have you ever broken something in a friend's house but neglected to admit to it?" To stuff a little more tawdry like "Have you ever gone skinny dipping in a public pool?"  The question that I stopped on was this: "Have you ever gone to a nude beach?"  I've not read through the instructions, so I don't know if the answers are supposed to be simply YES or NO, or if there's some explanation allowed to elaborate on each question.  My answer to this particular question would be YES.  Now allow me to elaborate on that point.

It was July 1st, Canada Day.  I can't recall the year, but I'm fairly certain it was about six or eight years ago.  A friend invited me to accompany her and her cousin to the beach ("beach") where we were supposed to meet up with some other work mates.  The beach turned out to be what is affectionately referred to here as "Bare Ass Beach".  It's a clothing optional beach.

It was quite a trek from the parking lot to our final resting spot near the edge of the rushing South Saskatchewan River.  Upstream from us, was a couple, a man and a woman, enjoying the sunshine and working on their tan.  The gal was laying on her chest and bikini straps lying next to her.  I admit I saw some side boob, but I never gawked like some people would.  Mostly on account that she looked like she would easily be able to whoop my ass, not to mention her muscular companion.

To the north of us, maybe about twenty-five to thirty feet away, were a gaggle of young girls.  Laughing, drinking and carrying on.  Not a worry in the world, which is expected for women of their young age.  Standing directly in front of them, was an old guy.  He was about 5' 10" tall, really heavy set with a big ol' round belly hanging down.  He was butt-freakin'-naked.  In fact, as far as I could tell, he was the ONLY naked dude on that entire stretch of beach.  Standing there at the river's edge, in water just below his knees, tugging on his manhood.  It was the most disturbing thing I'd seen up to that point in my life.  The girls on the beach, were too involved in each other's fun and laughter to notice the fellow pleasing himself.  It was truly disgusting.

So yes....  I've been to a nude beach and based on that experience alone, I've never gone back, nor will I ever.

Better Than Sex

Yep!  You read that title correctly.  The feeling may not exist every time, but when it's done right, a good hearty burp can feel better than sex anywhere on the planet.  My belch of preference is that which accompanies a nice swig of ice cold Coca-Cola.  There's nothing like it.  Sometimes, if the belch erupts immediately following a big sip, I can still feel the bubbles of carbonation tickling my throat.  I swear it's as satisfying as hearing a baby's first laugh or receiving a warm embrace.  I love it!!

Granted, maybe I'm doing something wrong, if I feel that burping is better than fornication, but I think I have the basic mechanics of it down pat.  It's not something I have an opportunity to do very often, unlike drinking carbonated beverages, but as memory serves, the investment into the sexual act, far outweighs the pay off.  I can't speak for my female counterparts, but I'd imagine they would agree.  All the snorting, grunting, sweating and what have ya, barely covers that final UGH!  Where as, I can sit down drink back a one-plus litre of Vanilla or Cherry Coke and become completely fulfilled for the mere cost of a couple of bucks.

Am I going to pay the price for this admission?  Perhaps, but truth be told, there's not a lot of dogs barking up this tree and I doubt there's going to be anyone coming a knocking at my door to try and prove me otherwise..  Granted, I've had quite a dry spell in the romance department, partially due, I'm almost certain, to my affinity for carbonated beverages, but I'm sure a shitty attitude may be a contributing factor,  However, no matter my outlook at the time, a tasty bottle of root beer isn't going to judge me based on attitude.

To all the lovely ladies reading these words, who've blessed me with the gift of coitus, once upon a time, I thank you and I assure that you've done nothing wrong.  Although, I'm sure you're looking back now with some reservation and disdain.  I enjoyed the time we spent together.  It was fun while it lasted, but to use that old phrase, "It's not you, it's me."

Inspired by T-Dub
(You know who you are...)

A Steaming Pile of Shit

I've seen a lot of movies in my lifetime.  Not all of them have been good.  Some have been complete stinkers.  "Drop Dead Fred", "Babylon A.D." and "Meet The Spartans" all come to mind.  Of all the crap that (mysteriously) gets produced every year, I've seen quite a few of them, but never have I walked out on a single movie.  Every one of them, I endured to the bitter end, choosing to critique them in their entirety.  "Hobo With A Shotgun", "Dark Shadows" and "Public Enemy" are a few more titles that fell short of what was promised audiences.

Even, in the privacy of my own home, I've chosen to continue watching terrible movies.  "Inception", "The Man With The Iron Fists" and "The Rum Diary", all shitty movies.  It was mentioned, even, that if a person got high and watched "Your Highness" that it would be funny.  I was high as a kite, when I watched that one and NO.  This is not the case, but I watched it to the end.

Tonight, I went to my bi-weekly movie with friends and the movie of (their) choice was "Into The Woods".  My initial thoughts when first seeing the preview, was no way.  I was not going to see that one.  It's not that I'm against musicals, it's just this particular film never appealed to me.  However, since it's release in December, the film has garnered numerous award nominations.  Awards numerous enough to catch my attention.  If the critics are rewarding this film with multiple accolades, then perhaps my initial opinions were unfounded.  When the decision was made the other day to see the film, I thought it an ample opportunity to see the film.

My initial gut instinct was the correct one.  I don't know what the public and the critics are smoking in order to find and believe this film to be anything other than complete drivel.  A complete waste of time.  Not all of the songs were tiresome, some actually kind of pleasant, but the number was ever so slight, totaling maybe two at most.  The rest droned on forever and ever.  Continuing to drive... No.  Hammer their point across to an audience who is probably half asleep, by this point.  Then, right when you come to the conclusion that the story is over and credits are to begin rolling, the story takes a confusing twist and continues on from there.

It was after a lengthy solo by Emily Blunt, who may or may not have cheated on her husband with Prince Charming, who was cheating on his new bride, Cinderella....  F*ck me!  It's tiring just trying to keep up with this meaningless plot point.  This was the point that I got up and left.

At the beginning of this blog entry, I commented that I've seen a lot of shitty movies in my life.  A LOT of shitty f*cking movies, both at home and in the theater and NEVER have I ever walked out of a single picture.  I left this f*cking movie.  I got up from my seat, asked the usher outside the theater when the movie was supposed to be over.  "At 9:30" she told me, "It's two and a half hours long."  I glanced down at my phone as she informed me of this fact, the time reading 20:48.  There was another forty minutes to go.  "F*ck that!" I proclaimed, as if they really gave two shits about what I thought.

When we exit any film, my companions always turn and ask me what I thought of the movie.  If I don't like, I tell them, to which one always says, "But it was better than 'Meet The Spartans', right?"  I usually agree.  Not this time.  I left without saying "boo".  I walked out, sent a text for them to read when the movie let out, and I never looked back.  This is money that I'll never see again and time wasted away from my boy.  The worst part about this movie, though, was the fact that I wasn't tired enough to go to sleep.  A restful slumber might have been this movie's only saving grace and that wasn't even in the cards, tonight.

"Into The Woods" was a steaming pile of shit.  It's undeserving of any award nominations that it's received and I hope to f*ck that it loses EVERY single award.  The producers and studio who made the movie should be ashamed of themselves and anyone recommending this film for all to see, ought to wake up with a mouthful of cat hair.  Of course, that's just MY opinion, but I've never been wrong a day in my life.

"INTO THE WOODS"
What a shit show...

Now Served with Xtra Dick

It wasn't until recently that I realized that the Disney corporation, as a whole, have been aiming a majority of it's entertainment towards girls.  Granted Sport Goofy and some of the Donald Duck shit have been oriented towards boy, most of everything else is based on Princess' and shit.

Even though it's intent, in the beginning, was educational programming for boy and girls ranging in age from preschool to early teens, programming eventually metamorphosing into television shows that appealed mainly to girls between the ages of 7 and 14 years of age.  Shows like The Mickey Mouse Club, Kids Incorporated and High School Musical are all examples of television aimed at girls, not to mention almost every movie released was about a princess of one sort or another.  Whether it's Snow White, Sleeping Beauty or Jasmine from Aladdin and Ariel from the Little Mermaid, practically everything is aimed at girls.  Somewhere along the way, in recent years, executives at Disney must have wised up to the missing male demographic and the launch of a new Disney network was launched, called "Disney XD".

In recent years, Disney's been buying up all sorts of new content, rather than creating anything of their own.  It began with the acquisition of Jim Henson's Muppets and Pixar to the most recent purchase of Marvel Entertainment and George Lucas' Star Wars, each selling for around $4 billion.  Now original content featuring the characters made famous by those studios.

Until it was mentioned in a podcast that I was listening to recently, I'd never really thought about it, before.  Disney really had been catering to the fairer sex.  Imagine all the lost revenue the corporation had missed out on prior to XD.  Couldn't have been that much lost revenue when you consider their shelling out over eight BILLION dollars for Star Wars and Marvel alone, not to mention all the other purchases in recent history.

Soon, my mind began to wander, as it sometimes does, curious about why Disney would name their new network XD?  Then it suddenly donned on me.

Ring of Fire

By nature, when it comes to food preparation for my lonely self, I tend not to get too fancy in the kitchen.  More often than not, I will prepare something quick and easy for myself to tide me over to the next meal, which might be something slightly more complicated or something from the drive-thru.  Pizza pops, for those unfamiliar, are a microwavable food snack which is available exclusively in Canada and are a cornerstone of my dietary practice.  It's a pocket of dough filled with a variety of pizza flavours.  In the beginning there were two flavours available.  One contained cheese, pizza sauce, pepperoni and bacon.  The other was called a Chili Pop, which was the same concept, only it was filled with chili.  The latter was a tasty treat, but sadly, it was discontinued shortly after it's introduction, but soon after it's demise, other pizza-themed flavours popped up, including a classic that had onions, ham, mushrooms 'n' some other shit.  I was never a fan of those flavours, nor was I too enthused about the ham & pineapple Hawaiian pizza pops.

Throughout the years since their inception, more flavours were introduced, which were favourable to my taste palet.  Triple cheese is a tantalizing favourite of mine, offering a chance at a heart attack with every delectable mouthful.  As well, I enjoy the Triple meat, that includes pepperoni, sausage and either beef or bacon.  I can't recall, exactly, but it's tasty as f**k.

Along comes this new flavour, Blazin' Nacho Cheese.  The image on the box would indicate that it's spicy hot in nature.  I'm not a fan of super hot shit, but I picked up a box of this new flavour, thinking how hot could it possibly be?  Let me tell you, my Canadian readers, anyway.  Take heed.  These motherf**kers aren't hot initially, though my pansy ass did find them fairly heated, all the same.

I heated just two of these doughy treats up Saturday afternoon.  As a precaution, I drank chocolate milk with them and I'm relieved I'd done so.  My palate is soft when it comes to anything hot and spicy.  Years ago, I burned my mouth on the pansy buffalo wings at a nearby watering hole, although I secretly believe that the cook read the order as "pansy" and decided to go ahead with spicy hot wings.  I doubt any self-respecting bar visitor is going to outright order the pansy wings, but I possess very little by way of self-respect, but instead of being weak flavoured, the heat was bold and somewhat bullying.  They knocked me on my ass, so when it came time to consume these seemingly hot pizza pops, I wasn't taking any chances.

I ate only two pizza pops, hoping for a light snack before something more substantial in the evening.  They were f*cking hot, but not nearly as bad as they would have been, had I drank a soda with them instead of the chocolate milk.  The fun never stopped there, though.  A few hours later, my stomach felt a little topsy-turvy and I was unable to follow up with a decent meal.  Shortly after that, came the gambling phase, where built up gas was straining to be released, which sometimes feels like a gamble, cutting one loose and realizing something more than just methane had evacuated from my nether regions.  99.999% it's a false alarm, but a majority of those still felt like a close call.

That thin line between between farting and sharting is a dangerous and precarious one.  Occasionally, it's a very stressful and uneasy feeling.  Squeaking out a sliver, negotiating that careful balance between noncommittal and unleashing a tremendous fury of flatulence.  Thankfully, there was no issues following my eating the hot pizza treats, except several cases of "flaming hoop", which is a hot burning sensation that follows a fart.  It's killer.  Dry, thankfully, but burns all the same.

Long story short.  Some people are cut out for this hot spicy shit.  I'm not.  I'll probably finish the box, as I literally cannot toss out anything if I don't have to.  I only have six left and they are frozen, so I can space them out enough where I won't remember how treacherous they really are.  Like KFC, which I eat once in a blue moon, as a reminder as to why I don't eat that shit.