Silent Movie

I love going to the movies.  Ever since I was a child, I've found it a calming escape from a life otherwise full of turmoil.  It's no surprise that growing up wasn't the easiest experience for me.  Perhaps it wasn't as terrible as that of some children, but it had more than it's fair share of horror.  So while some kids might get into mischief, I always found it more relaxing to escape into my imagination for a couple of hours, being a fly on the wall of someone else's existence.

My joy of escape can also be reflected in the tremendous library of movies and TV shows in my personal collection.  I've lived in this house of mine for going on seven years and though I've got a ton already alphabetized, there are still hundreds still packed in boxes from when I moved in.  I haven't got the foggiest idea of how many DVDs and Blurays I own, but there's probably thousands of stories that I can dive into and escape my reality for awhile.  That withstanding, the experience of watching a movie on the silver screen has never left me.  I enjoy getting out of the house, meeting up with friends (or sometimes not) and watching a fun flick in the cinema.

Movies have come a long way in the last decade, let alone over the span of my lifetime, and it's progressed leaps and bounds since the days of Laurel and Hardy (pictured above), and the price of a ticket has reflected these improvements.  Seems like the crisper the sound and visuals are, the pricier the admission gets, not to mention the second mortgage one needs to take out if refreshments are desired.  Generally, I'm satisfied with a simple over-priced soda.

Along with the progression of the movies, so has people's personal devices.  Although some people still insist on sparking up their iPad's and other nonsense, for the most part it's pretty good.  A good number of people obey the warning clip that precedes the previews, that suggests people shut off their personal devices.  I've never understood those who insist on distracting themselves with texting or Facebook during the movie, given how expensive movie tickets tend to be, not to mention being so ignorant as to ruin everyone else's movie experience.  And don't get me started on the people who choose to talk throughout the film.  They tend to frustrate me and all those around them, too.

What baffles me the most, though, are the idiots who bring their children.  If the movie is a cartoon or something family-oriented, then bring your kids.  I understand.  The subject matter is aimed at their simple minds, so I'll sit back and try to enjoy myself regardless.  However, these ignorant cusses who drag their six month, twelve month or 24-month old babies to watch an action movie riddled with curse words, gore and mayhem caused by machine gun fire and explosions...  I don't understand.  I get it, that babysitter's cost an arm and a leg, nowadays.  Little Becky-Sue is charging double-digits to watch your little rug-rat, instead of being content with a crisp five dollar bill, but dragging your brat along with you and allowing it to chitter-chatter throughout the film, shouldn't be allowed either.

Tonight, I went to watch the latest Fast & Furious film.  The whole series is a little silly and tongue-in-cheek, but they're fun for me to watch.  Fast cars, explosive action and hot chicks galore.  Ya can't ask for much more than that in a movie, except maybe NOT BRINGING YOUR F**KING CHILD TO THE MOVIE!!!  I tried and tried to ignore this silly little shit, that kept throwing his apple juice on the floor, pulling the hair of the people sitting in front of him or just being a complete f*cking nuisance on his parents.  At one point, I had enough and I stormed out of the theater and approached one of the ushers.  I said to him, "At the beginning of the movie, you show a clip that tells people to shut off their phones.  Then you have one that tells people to not talk, so that the other people can enjoy the movie, but you need to have one that tells people NOT to bring their f*cking babies.  Why is it acceptable for people to bring their kids to a grown up movie and allow them to talk throughout the entire movie??"

The munchkin looked at me, blankly, and replied, "I can look into getting you a refund."  I shook my head with defeat, telling him to shove his refund up his ass.  "I don't want a refund.  I want you to shut that kid up."

Nothing was done about it.  So I clenched my teeth, and watched the remainder of the film.  From what I was able to catch when I wasn't distracted by how much I hated children in that instance, the movie was pretty f*cking good.  I may try to catch it again, at some point down the road, not sure when or if I will do so in the theater.  I'm glad that I have a big screen TV and an awesome sound system.  As I will, for sure, be purchasing this movie to add to my ever-growing collection, and escaping my pitiful reality once more.

I remember going to the movies when I was a kid and sometimes, I was the only person in the theater.  There's something truly special about being the only one in the theater, being able to sit wherever and having the movie played especially for you.  It's as close to heaven as I'll ever get.

Tits 'n' Ass

A few months back, myself and a friend had the distinct privilege of seeing Australian comedian, Jim Jeffries perform his unique comedy act, here in Saskatoon.  It was shocking, vulgar and hilarious as all f*ck!  As his show came to a close, Jim got somewhat serious for a moment, passing on a message to give to charity, but more specifically, charities for Colon Cancer.  He went on to explain that most money goes towards Breast Cancer charities, but not as much goes towards Colon Cancer.  He never elaborated on this message, but I gathered that someone close to him either has or succumbed to colon cancer.  A valid message, all the same.

I came away from that show, wondering why so much charitable donations go to breast cancer and not so much to other cancer charities.  Then it donned on me.  I think I may have been looking at a picture of Katy Perry or some well-endowed female starlet, when the reason became clear.  The solution was simple: Everybody loves boobs!

Now, I do mean everybody.  Women love their boobs!  And men love women's boobs.  I think even gay men, have a certain affinity for boobs, male or female.  So, yes!  Everybody loves boobs!!  Not many people like an asshole!  I'm a great example of this.  I don't have colon cancer, but I am an asshole, which explains why I have so few friends.

It's all crystal clear.  Breasts rule and assholes drool!  However, you feel in either case, though, if you have the cash to spare, give what you can, whether it's for the love of boobs or to ass cancer, out of spite.

Day Three - 300,000 plus

The first person I spoke to at the Expo on Saturday, informed me that there was an estimated 300,000 people attending the Comic Expo on that Saturday alone.  That's roughly the entire population of Saskatoon, crammed into the small Calgary Stampede site.  It's no wonder that parking on the grounds was filled before the venue even opened for the day.

Our trek to the convention was without much drama.  We'd traveled the nearly straight line for a couple of days, so my co-pilot didn't need to consult her GPS, which I believe was conspiring against us in the days previous, often feeding us wrong turns 'n' such.  On this day, Saturday, it was already speculated that the influx of people would be incredible, but I never expected that traffic would be lined up as far back as it was.  Blocks upon blocks!

When the Stampede site was within visual distance, is when the stupid f*cking drivers started trying to dart in ahead of me.  I may not be the best driver at times, I still stand by my proclamation that I am better than most drivers.  There was a train track that dissected the street leading to the entrance.  Having seen the transit trolley pass frequently in passing days, I chose not to park my vehicle on the tracks.  It's the safe thing to do, after all.  There is very little that I take pride in more than my truck and having it smashed by a train would not make my day (or life) very enjoyable.  However, this dumb bitch, yes I know I shouldn't use the term, but it's deserving, bypasses all who have been patiently waiting behind my rear bumper, and darts into the space between me and the car in front of us, parking her lazy ass on those tracks.  Oh how I reveled at the idea that a train come and smash the f*ck out of her little SUV.  We'd be late for the Expo, sure, but what a memory to take home with us.

Unfortunately, no train.  The traffic pulled ahead, but not by much.  Enough that I could pull ahead, clearing the train tracks.  The dumb f*ck behind me, failed to practice the same safety as I, and pulled up right behind me, blocking the tracks.  Why do I mention this?  Why, the lights began to flash and bells sounded, indicating the train was fast approaching.  Suddenly, asshole starts hammering on his horn for me to move ahead, but I couldn't move ahead.  It wasn't my fault his parents raised a stupid child.  Sadly, the light changed to green, allowing us to move forward and dumb shit's life to be spared.  Yet, I'm the bad guy?

Long story short, parking was filled and we were instructed to try the north end of the complex.  Ultimately, we found alternate parking and for a cheaper price.  It was a little further to walk, but it was a nice day, so I didn't mind, although one of my companions was dressed in a great big gown as a "punk version" of Beauty & The Beast's Belle.  I can't imagine walking all that distance, hiking up the gown, was all that much fun.  Just one of the perks of being a guy, I guess.

Me and the kid with the stupid bird hat attended a Q&A with some of the "deceased" stars of The Walking Dead, which was okay, but the questions people asked these guys was borderline retarded.  I can attest to the fact that nervousness can be overwhelming.  I experienced some of that the day before in meeting Mick Foley.  At one point, I almost broke into tears, but I don't think I said anything overly stupid.  I made a couple jokes, which Mick was quick to respond to, in classic comic fashion.

After the Q&A, we met up with our friends and soon parted ways again.  It was around this time that I spoke with a couple folks running booths in the pavilion, one fella who worked with leather making masks and helmets.  He was quite interesting to speak with.  A part of these shows that I do enjoy.

I will never be one of those kind of people who will dress up for one of these conventions.  Not unless I was extremely passionate about something, but the only thing I like that much, aside from my cat, is wrestling, but I don't have the body or commitment to pull of a look so bold.  On the other hand, I do appreciate some of the effort put into other costumes.  I saw a guy dressed as Starlord from the Guardians of the Galaxy.  I wanted so much to go up to him and ask:

          Me: Who are you supposed to be?
          Him: Starlord.
          Me: Who?
          Him: Starlord!  Awe, come on, man!

It would have been classic, just like it happened in the movie, but I doubt these nerdy f*cks would have the audacity to recognize the scenario.  Hell, I ran into a giant of a man dressed as Groot and when I requested a photograph, he nodded, instead of muttering the words, "I am Groot."  Three simple words, but no.  Some days I wish I could walk around and only mutter three words.  Life would be so much more simple.

The guy pictured above was an incredible Batman, in my opinion.  He was more than happy to pose for a picture, giving me not just one stance, but a couple.

I grabbed a couple T-shirts that day, but it was SO god damned crowded, I kept getting knocked about and I was growing more and more upset with each blow.  It was at this time that I was informed by how many people were on the grounds.  "Three hundred thousand." I was told, which I thought was an exaggeration, but given the crowds inside were literally elbow-to-elbow, and outside wasn't much better, I'd estimate that the figure was pretty dead on.  I was so relieved that I'd got to meet Mick Foley the day before.  I never ventured into that hall, but I can only imagine the crowd waiting to meet him was staggering.

After only a couple of hours, we decided we had enough and departed.  Walking back to the truck, it felt like an incredible weight had been lifted off.  I actually felt stress falling away from my body, like smoke and embers floating away from a campfire.  On the way back to the hotel, we stopped for ice cream beverages.  I had a chocolate shake, while my passengers indulged in rootbeer floats, and all was well with the world.  That night, we went for supper at my friend's sister's house, where I met for the first time, friendly Calgary people.  I could hardly believe the contrast between how pleasant and welcoming they were to how stubborn, rude and ignorant the rest of Calgary seemed to be.  Oddly, though, what I found most memorable about the visit, was their cat.  This spry little cat came up to me a few times, looking for attention, which I was more than happy to give, being that I missed my cat.  He was small and energetic and to my surprise, SEVENTEEN years old.  I was floored.  I couldn't believe this cat was seventeen.  What was most memorable, for me, was the actions that the cat did next.

Everyone was distracted by the hockey playoffs on the television, but I don't really give two shits about hockey (an odd thing for a Canadian boy to admit, but nonetheless true), so my attention was on the cat and trying to coax him back so I could pet him some more.  Instead, the cat chose to bathe himself.

Now allow me to paint the picture.  I was seated on a small sofa, with my friend M_____, her boyfriend, D____ was on the stairs next to her, and the rest of the family was spread around the outer wall to his left, all looking at the action on the television set.  My eyes are on the cat, whose leg is propped back behind his head and he's washing his "manhood".  Suddenly, I noticed a little reddish-pink nub growing.  It's growing and it's growing and it's pulsing and it's growing.  I'm not staring at it, but at the cat's eyes who has stopped licking and his stare is fixed on my friend M_____ seated to my left.  His nub is in my peripheral, my eyes locked on his, his fixed on M_____.  It was like a beastly show 'n' tell.  He never got her attention and frustrated, he kicked his leg down and left the room.  Probably to go rub one out, but that's purely speculation on my part.

We stopped for an (expensive) ice cream cone at Dairy Queen before retiring to our hotel.  At some point that evening, we'd all agreed that we had enough of the Calgary Comic Expo and removed the wristband that allowed us entrance to the festival.  Day Four we would come home instead of dealing with the masses of nerds and freaks.

Day Four began with our packing shit up, (and my forgetting shit behind).  Then we went to a thrift shop and McDonald's then one more stop along the way.  A massive mall outside Calgary, near the town of Airdrie.  It seemed nice.  It had everything you can imagine.  Even a bear.  I don't ever plan on (realistically) moving, unless something truly extraordinary happens to me, but if I did, Airdrie, might be a nice destination.  It seems like it has every amenity I would require to be a recluse.  But I'm happy where I am, for now.  No plans on moving.  Plus, I don't think I could be the asshole behind the wheel that seems to be required to live in Alberta, anyway.

I have to admit, though, the best part of Calgary was my pretending I didn't know who or what the Calgary Flames were.  Calgarians would mentions something about the Flames, who were in the playoffs at the time, and I would play dumb and bewildered by what they might be.  "Are they some sort of sporting team?"  I would ask and watching the blood drain away from their faces was priceless.  At the Expo, there was a lady selling license plates with the Flames logo on it.  I asked what the Flaming C was all about, adding that I'd seen it in a number of places, but had no idea what it stood for.  "The Calgary Flames", she told me proudly, to which I responded that I'd never heard of them.  Among all the A-holes I'd encountered during my brief stay in Calgary, these few folks were the least dickish, probably thinking I was retarded for never having heard of the Calgary Flames.  Whatever.  I get my fun from where I can find it.

Been 10 Days, but Day Two of Calgary Expo

As the title indicates, it's been ten days since I reported my experience with Day One of the Calgary Expo, but I will explain the long delay between blogs, hopefully, in this blog, today.

First, however, is my thoughts on the City of Calgary.  I know that, like every other city in the known universe, there's a sign at the outskirts welcoming visitors and new residents.  A truer statement, this will never be.  I barely felt welcome in the City of Calgary, except for Day Three, when I was welcomed into the family home of one of my traveling companions.  The rest of Calgary, on the other hand, I received nothing but complacency or rudeness.  That was just from the citizens.  The drivers, are an experience all unto their own.  The sign coming into Calgary should read: Calgary - Like It or Leave It!

When I was going for my driving test to drive a school bus (yes, I'm fondly called "Mr. Bus Driver", by my kindergarten to Grade 8 passengers), the individuals (two of them, as I failed my first road exam) both indicated that Alberta drivers were among the worst they'd ever seen.  One even indicated that he was traveling in a southern U.S. state and was cut-off, nearly sent flying into a ditch, by a vehicle bearing an Alberta license plate.  So Albertans aren't just shitty drivers at home, but they spread their shittiness all about.  But just to reiterate, in Calgary, the drivers seem to be at an all-time high for shitty driving.  At one point, I tweeted the Calgary Police (@CalgaryPolice) and asked if they had a policy against texting while driving.  They responded by indicating that there was a province-wide law against distracted driving.  I concluded back to them that they should let their drivers know.

Drivers and shitty attitudes, aside, Day Two of the Calgary Expo was pretty cool.  There were more people there, obviously, than had attended the first day, so it made moving about a little more difficult, especially as I was saddled with a duffle bag slung over my shoulder, in it, a plentiful bounty of (mostly) Mick Foley memorabilia.

I had known the infamous Mick Foley was to attend the Expo, so I tried to psych myself up for meeting him, but when I first laid eyes upon the Hardcore Legend, I panicked and shuffled over to the line up for Trish Stratus.  It was much shorter and though she was to arrive shortly, it'd afford me enough time to calm my nerves.

I was supposed to meet Trish Stratus years before in Saskatoon, but due to an injury the night before, she was unable to attend and was replaced by "Victoria" (Lisa Marie Varon) & "Lita" (Amy Dumas).  Amy Dumas was also at this Expo, signing autographs and such, but she was extremely rude to me at that meet & greet in Saskatoon, and I've never forgiven her since.  Trish was nice, when she finally arrived.  Not what I expected.  She has a very small frame and dainty features.  I shook her hand and as much as I've hated my small hands, they dwarfed hers.  I couldn't believe that this, for all intense purposes, "little girl" could throw around all those people that I've seen her toss, in the ring all those years ago, but she did.  She's one tough little lady, that's for sure.

When it came time to meet Mr. Foley, I was ushered aside by an orderly, who indicated that it was VIP's only, who were meeting him and if I wished to see him, I'd have to return that evening.  I was both disappointed and relieved.  So after clearing it with my traveling companions, I returned at five o'clock and waited nearly one hour to meet Mick Foley.  I took this time to become one with the world, calming myself down so I wouldn't panic or faint.

Another advantage to waiting for the later event to meet the man, was the prices of autographs went down.  In the AM, I glanced at the price list and saw that it was $50 per autograph to get a book signed (I had two books), $40 for any other signatures (I had a wrestling figure) and $40 for a picture taken (with your own device, I might add).  That was going to be a pricey visit, I thought, but as it turned out, those were VIP prices and the pricing came down for us "regular" folk.  $40 for each autograph or two for $60.  I spoke with the rep who was seated there before Mick arrived and he gave me a deal; Two books, a figure, an autographed picture and a picture taken with Mick, all for $120.  Essentially, I got two free, and because the dolt working my camera phone screwed up and took two pictures, I snuck and extra, although Mick is already looking away in it.  Calgary on Day Two, sucked balls, but it was almost worth it, because I got to meet Mick Foley.  I'll try to explain the experience in it's entirety in a later posting.

We'd eventually depart and begin our quest to look for a nice eating establishment.  It was the birthday of one of my traveling companions who was excited to have a nice dinner at the Hooters that we'd been passing on our daily treks to and from the Expo.  "I'm in the mood for boobies!" she said, or something to that effect.  I can't remember because all I heard was "boobies".  I don't know who was more disappointed to learn that the establishment had been closed down, her or me.  I know I was in the mood for some boobies, too.  After much consideration, we settled on The Keg, which is somewhat of an upper scale eating establishment.  I felt quite under dressed in my T-shirt and shorts.  I don't know what thoughts were going through the mind of the kid next to me wearing some kind of f*cking bird on his head.  The prices were outrageous for the minuscule portions laid on the plate, but at least it tasted fine.  Mine did, anyway.  The server, Trent, was tremendous,  Outgoing and friendly, until the food arrived and we barely saw the motherf*cker after that, and when the bills came and he failed to get the gratuity he felt he deserved, I'm told he got outright rude with my compatriots.  Birthday supper ruined by a worker with no life ambition.

I would have reported all this last Friday, but for some odd reason, when we returned to the hotel, there was no wi-fi.  I couldn't log on to Facebook or even Google, and when I went to the desk to report the failure, the guy behind the counter, instructed me to return to my room and call him to complain.  By the time I climbed the stairs back up to our third floor room, the internet had miraculously come back online.  By this time, though, I was in such a bad mood, my mind frame prevented me from any sort of creativity.

About seven years ago, I went on a little solo adventure to Edmonton, Alberta.  I'd worked and lived in Edmonton years before and never got to do some of the shit I'd always wanted, so this trip was kind of special for me.  However, my experience was short-lived as traffic and alike was striking out against me.  My planned trip of about five days was shortened to about three.  I believed at the time that Edmonton sucked and that Calgary had to be better.  This past weekend, with driving about in this confusing city of trails and circle-jerks, I'm proclaiming that Edmonton IS the better of the two cities.  There's no confusion there.  Get an address and you can find it quite easily without a map.  Calgary is quite the opposite.  My heart goes out to my friends and family who live in Calgary.  They're much stronger than I am.  Or maybe their driving is as shitty as the rest of Calgary.  Who knows?!?

Calgary Expo - Day One

Woke up early this morning, packed the truck full of shit and rushed across town to pick up friends before heading out west, Calgary bound, intent on attending the 2015 Calgary Comic Expo.  This is the second such event that I have attended, the first being in Saskatoon, but in comparison, the Saskatoon version is pretty small.  I had heard stories of what these larger events entailed, so I've entered this scenario with predisposed thoughts, but so far, while scaled up in size, I can't help but think, I thought it'd be bigger.

Granted, it is only the first day and we've had limited exposure.  Tomorrow we're going to tackle a whole other venue we discover via a highly confusing event map.  Also happening tomorrow, I'm going to meet the Hardcore Legend, Mick Foley.  I've been stoked all week long, dreaming (and wondering) just what the hell I'm going to say to the man.  As the minutes and hours pass by, I will admit I'm becoming more overwhelmed with anxiety.  I hope I can hold it together when I do finally meet him.  I have a great deal of respect for the man, as a pro wrestler, a writer, an entertainer and an all around genuinely nice guy.  I know from personal experience that sometimes our heroes let us down when we meet them, but I know in my heart that Mick is the real deal.  More on that subject in the coming days.

The one thing that I do know for sure, is that Calgary, in the sense of maneuvering about in traffic, is insanely moronic.  I don't know who the dumb f*ck was who decided on the meandering streams of traffic, but it is confusing as f*ck.  So confusing, I might add, that the GPS in my friends phone, was barely able to provide a definitive route in order to get from point A to point B.  Either that or it was "the reader", but I'm sure she'd flat out deny that.

Over all, Day One has been uneventful.  Just an opportunity to get our bearings.  We have three more days of this insanity.  Now I'm chillin' at the hotel, headphones on and listening to Bert Kreischer's Bertcast with MMA fighter, Brendan Schaub, disrespect the physicality of professional wrestling, using the my most hated word in the English language....: Fake.

Double Deuce

When the name or term 'Double Deuce' is Googled, a number of responses come up.  First, and foremost, is the name of the bar that Patrick Swayze handed ass-kicking's out in the movie Road House.  Another bar and grill that comes up, likely because of where I'm situated in the world, is the bar I used to frequent years 'n' years ago during my drunken stupidity era, then later on, the meeting place where friends and I would consume buffalo wings or the daily special before taking in a movie on 'cheap ass Tuesdays' at the nearby cinema.  That bar no longer exists.  Not by name anyway.  Today it goes by an Irish name that I cannot recall.

The terminology, on the other hand, defines it as something completely different.  By definition, while it sounds country and/or western, what a 'double deuce' is....  Well...  On second thought.  You be  the judge.  The definition that I read online was as follows: A 'double deuce' is the act of when one person is seated on the toilet, taking a shit and a second person sits on the first persons lap and shits through the space between the first person's legs.  Now I shouldn't jump to conclusions, but, this sounds a little gay and quite a bit more daring than I'd ever care to witness.  Let's put it this way; Super Dave Osborne was an amazing stuntman in his day, but not even Super Dave would try such a daunting feat.  Not even with Genuine Saskatchewan Seal Skin Bindings.

I was visiting my mother's house this morning, helping her change the handle on her front door.  After finishing the task, I suddenly had to rush to the washroom.  On her toilet, there's an apparatus that raises the seat up about six inches.  She's on a waiting list to have a hip replacement and attached the seating device early, so as to get the hang of it before the day of her surgery comes.  Unfortunately, for everyone who visits, they also get to practice pooping as if they'd just had a hip replacement.  Thus was my experience.  After conducting my business, I returned to the kitchen where we'd been chatting.  I marveled in two things when  I sat down.  One was remembering a blog that I wanted to write involving the Zombie Apocalypse.  The second was being reminded of the illustrious 'Double Deuce'.  I quickly explained to my mother, who was not privy to the term, and regaled with the response that it gave her.  Normally, her brand of humour shies away from the vulgar, but she laughed loudly at the premise.  I don't know if she'll share the new found knowledge with anyone or if she'll be able to properly retell the story, but those fleeting moments of my mom laughing and shaking uncontrollably, were all too precious for me.

"Double Deuce" sounds like a country 'n' western term and taking a shit between your buddy's legs is pretty gay.., so maybe what I've said for years and years about country music turning people gay, may be true, after all.  I've always stated that it (country music) makes women think about men in tight-fittin' jeans and that it makes men think about men in tight-fittin' jeans.  I actually concocted a joke from that premise once, but nobody understood it.  After a few confused looks and head scratches, I aborted the premise, citing "It's not funny if I have to explain it to you..."

 Guess it was too intellectual for them, or something.

Fletcher

"Tomatoes!!"

"Gummy bears!!"

"Root beer!!"

I was in line at the Co-op grocery store, piling my goods onto the conveyor when I overheard the commentary on the wares being purchased by the lady in front of me.  I looked up to see a lone fellow at the end of the till, wearing a company uniform, with a smile stretched from ear-to-ear.  Each item that came into his grasp, he would loudly announce what it was and, if the feeling was right, would make a mild comment on that item.

I don't know what his name was.  I never saw a name tag, He could have been a David, a Michael or Duncan, for all I know, but he looked like a Fletcher, to me.  From his mannerisms, I instantly recognized that he was a person with special needs, but it was his joyous exuberance that really caught my attention.  The lady in front of me, was visibly annoyed from the attention that her purchases were attracting, but simply smiled, nodded and waved as she gathered up her bags and departed.

Next was my turn.  I was only picking up some cheaply priced soda pop.  Root beer was included in the menagerie, as was some diet cola, ginger ale and grape soda.  I don't "Fletcher" was a fan of the Ginger Ale, as he overlooked it in his dialogue, but as soon as he noticed the purple liquid, he erupted with excitement.  "Ooh!  Grape!" he shouted out with glee, "I love grape!  I'm going to have to buy some grape, today, before I go home!!"  I smiled and admitted to my peculiar craving for the sweet beverage from time-to-time, which I think he liked.

Then he noticed the four cases of canned diet root beer.  "Ah-hah!" he said, picking up the case and transferring into my cart.  "Diet is good for you.  But pop isn't good for you.  Hmm..."  The cashier agreed with that surmise.  "No pop is really good for you." she said.

I thanked him and wished him a good weekend.  He smiled and waved, thanking me, adding "Have fun at the party!!"  I bother to correct him that I was making the purchase for my own gluttony, as opposed to supplying refreshments to a festivity.

I stopped at the Customer Service Desk and told the lone occupant that "Fletcher" was really really nice.  I was in a pretty good mood when I went into the shopping center, but I was leaving with a smile stretched across my face, from ear-to-ear, that was rivaled only by the one on Fletcher's face. 

Late Night

Late Night with David Letterman.  Late Night with Conan O'Brien.  Late Night with Jimmy Fallon.

All three predecessors to the current, all sounded good.  Each talent's name existed synonymous with the Late Night moniker, but the last.., Late Night with Seth Meyers, sounds like an assault on the palate.  Whether it be David Letterman, or Conan or Jimmy,  all the names rolled off the tongue like poetry, but the name Seth Meyers spoken in conjunction with the Late Night title, sounds like the crushing sound of two 1971 Plymouth Fury's plowing into one another.

I'm sure Seth Meyers is a pleasant fellow and quite adept to helm the mantle of the Late Night ship.  He was always enjoyable manning the news desk on SNL, on those rare occasions that I would tune into that show.  I've not watched any of the new rendition of Late Night, nor did I watch any of Jimmy's shows, either, with exception to a fun clip or two shared on Facebook.  I only mention Seth Meyers now because it was on as I shut my television off, roughly ten minutes ago.  It was only a few fleeting seconds of Seth thanking a pretty brunette for coming on the show.  From what I could tell of the brief viewing, is it looks as though NBC spared every nickel possible on providing Mr. Meyers with the absolutely cheapest looking set imaginable.  The desk alone, looks like balsa wood slapped together with packing tape.  It looks so flimsy that it would not surprise me if a violent sneeze tore the entire ensemble apart.

As stated, I'm not a fan of the show.  I don't watch it, nor do I watch Jimmy's show.  In fact, I don't really watch any of the talk shows anymore.  I did try to tune into CBS and Craig Ferguson's Late Late Show, when he was the host, even though he tended to pre-tape his shows weeks in advance.  The humour was still present, but the effort left a lot to be desired.  I have been watching his replacement, James Corden.  Corden has been, as far as I can tell anyway, recording each show on a daily basis.  I've only missed one episode of the new version and thus far, the show is very charming and funny.  

James Corden was one of the ensemble cast of the movie "Into The Woods", a musical that I found to be SO completely over-the-top crappy, that it was (literally) the first movie I ever got fed up with and stormed out of in a fit of rage.  It was THAT bad.  However, since The Late Late Show with James Corden really IS so charming, I've forgiven him for making "Into The Woods".  I still hate that movie more than cancer, though.

I plan to continue watching the Late Late Show, at least until it's not fun to anymore.  As well, I miss watching Stephen Colbert on The Colbert Report, so when he replaces David Letterman later on this year, I'm sure I'll be tuning into that (then) two-hour block, every night.  

I watch a lot of television, This is true.  But, I'm a single guy.  I don't go out too often.  I don't watch sports.  My TNA Impact Wrestling is on a channel that I cannot afford to subscribe to, so I have a lot of time to waste before I shuffle off this big ol' shitty world.  May as well have a chuckle or two in the meantime.

EPILOGUE:  I really enjoyed the original version of The Late Late Show was LIVE and was hosted by the late Tom Snyder, who was infamously a newsman and radio personality before hosting the early version of the Late Late Show.  Tom would come onto the screen, just him and another seat.  He'd talk to the camera and ultimately, to all of us watching at home and speak from the heart.  Once in a while, Tom would tell a funny joke, which only the laughter of the crew could be heard howling following the punch line.  Over the years, I've kept a couple of those jokes in my hip pocket, just in case I need an ice-breaker for a new crowd of friends.  The format was simple.  As I said, it was just Tom.  His guest and the odd viewer who was encouraged to phone in with a question for the guest.

Snyder only hosted for four short years, then it was Craig Kilborn who replaced Tom, followed by Ferguson who hosted to ten years.  

Haters Gonna Hate Hate Hate

Speaking of hate, I hate the fact that I quoted Taylor Swift for the title of this blog, but don't hold that against me.  That annoying song is a part of pop culture and for argument sake, it fits the subject matter of today's blog.

I'm an avid user of Twitter.  I don't have a high number of followers.  Not many people privy to my unique stance on the world.  In fact,  I'm still yo-yoing in the vicinity of 250 followers, after four years.  I still have fun with it, though.  Trading comments, remarks and praises with my favourite celebrities.  

Once in a while, though, I'm greeted with unwelcome comments, remarks aimed to discredit or belittle me, usually on a personal level.  I generally ignore these comments, but once in a blue moon, a comment crosses before my eyes that I simply cannot leave alone.

One thing that I find most irresistible is my ability to point out the flaws, shortcomings and blatant mistakes that people make.  Spelling errors, poor grammar or general stupidity, I find impossible to not point out, or even belittle, depending on it's severity.

I have a friend on Facebook, whom I continually correct spelling and grammar mistakes.  She thinks I do it out of a need to make her feel stupid, despite my repeated assurances that I don't do it for that reason.  Instead, I do it..., simply because I have no choice.  It's as involuntary as deciding to breathe.  The fact that I point out that her poor education is due to growing up in the city of Regina, Saskatchewan, IS by choice, but that's only because Regina is such a shit-hole.  It's true.  Look it up!

Earlier today, while looking through my Twitter feed, I saw a posting from TMZ that remarked: #Breaking: ATL Hawks star, Thabo Sefolosha, in HEATED scuffle with NYPD officers...  They offer up a video, which I did not click on because, frankly, I don't give a shit.  I did, however, make a quick comment, which was meant as a humourous quip based on the fact that celebrities usually get special treatment over regular folks.  "@TMZ Do the police not know that he's a celebrity? #DifferentRulesForCelebs" is what I wrote.  Less than a minute later, I received a comment from a fellow by the Twitter handle of @prototypekicks, who began questioning my use of the word 'celebrity'.  Back and forth we exchanged comments, each response I received, the more disparaging they got.  I'm not proud of myself, but I deduced that this fellow was of limited education and the meaner he got, the meaner I got.  Unfortunately, when I get mean, I go for blood, getting as vicious as I can.  I go for the jugular, with hopes of offending the party so deeply, they'll give up and leave me alone.

I don't know who Thabo Sefolosha is.  I don't watch basketball.  I barely consider basketball as an actual sport.  Given the terrible physical shape that I'm in, I consider any activity that I can do, can't actually be considered a sport.  Even if I can't do it well, if I can still do it, it's not a sport.  For instance, I'll never make it on the PGA circuit, but I can bang the f*ck out of a golf ball, and therefore golf is not a sport.  That withstanding, the goofball, @prototypekicks, begins giving me the basketball player's stats and claiming that his lack of skill, prevents him from being a celebrity.  Even though, by definition a celebrity is: A famous or well-known person.

@prototypekicks apparently did a check on my Twitter account, as he began attacking this very blog.  Upon reciprocating and doing the same on his account, I gather that he possesses a fetish for sneakers as his photos are overrun with pictures of the gayest looking shoes I've ever seen.  There's no way in hell that any self-respecting man would be seen wearing those shoes, unless it were while performing yard work or shoveling manure.  Hashtag: Ugly as f*ck!

As Taylor Swift croons; Haters are gonna hate hate hate, and I'm certain that this isn't going to be the last Twidiot that crosses paths with me.  Christ!!!  I wish I was paid a dime for every f*ckwad that I exchange words with on Twitter OR Facebook.  I've had to stop following many of my favourite wrestling sites on FB, due to assholes blanketing me with a horrendous barrage of hatred if I say anything negative about the WWE.  

In the end, assholes are going to continue to be gaping assholes, so long as a level of anonymity accompanies their dickishness.  I could care less.  I stand behind every stupid comment I make.  I welcome any backlash that may come of it.  I'm not afraid of any of these simple-minded fools.  Chances are, I could Jedi Mind Trick most of them with the wave of my hand...  Or simply jingle my keys to distract.  I'm not saying I'm better than everyone I interact with on the internet, but DO say that I'm smarter than a majority of them.

"Water's wet.  The sky is blue.  Fact is, I'm way smarter than most of you!" - ToontownJuggalo, to the World Wide Web.

Ugh! Popcorn!!

Ugh!  Popcorn!  If I were a superhero, I have no doubt that the bane of my existence would be popcorn.  Superman has Lex Luther.  Batman has the Joker, but my arch nemesis would always be popcorn.

I wouldn't presume to say that popcorn would be my Kryptonite, as popcorn could not and would not ever kill me, but it's mere presence drives me absolutely bonkers.  It's the sound it makes.  Whether it's the throaty popping sound that emits from the kettle or the subtle squeaks it makes as people shovel it into their gullets.  Either way, it drives me as nuts as any squeak or rattle in my vehicle.

Other than my incredible power of parallel parking, another gift that I'm cursed with is incredible hearing.  I possess inalienable ability to hear that which most are incapable of hearing.  I had a hearing test impeded once by a fan that I swore was in the booth with me.  It turned out the be a fan that sat on the floor above the doctor's office.  So it's not impossible that I can hear the squeakiness of the popcorn.

In my youth, I never harboured any ill-will towards the salty snack.  While I never purchased any of the treat when attending the movies, I never hated the stuff like I do these days.  I'd even went so far as to buy the odd box of Pink Elephant popcorn, although if memory serves, Pink Elephant possesses a sort of plastic-styrofoam taste about it.  Explains why I've never even subconsciously craved Pink Elephant in decades.

Many years ago, I worked the night shift at a 24-hour video store.  One of the duties I had, when I came into work was cleaning out the popcorn machine.  I had to scoop out the remaining popcorn, which was sold for a buck, then clean out all the grease and salt, using a strong vinegar-water solution, followed by glass cleaner.  The mixing of those two smells is something that, to this day, still haunts me.  Then there was the cleaning of the kettle.  Everyday, as fresh popcorn was being popped, some batches would be forgotten or the little wing inside the kettle wouldn't be turned on and the corn was forced to just sit there, popping then ultimately burning.  There aren't many things that smell worse, within my circle of experiences, that is, than burnt popcorn.  Perhaps, it's these experiences that solidified my hatred for popcorn.  It's difficult to say for certain.

These days, I can't hardly smell corn without being revolted to some degree.  The reasoning behind that is the cat litter I use for my cat.  The litter is made from corn, which traps his "business" the best I've ever seen, masking the stringent smell that accompanies it.  One time, when I used regular kitty litter, the smell of his pee was so strong, it gave me a bloody nose as I scooped his box clean.  This has never been a factor since making the switch.  I highly recommend making the switch, if you haven't already.

Popcorn, though!  Ugh!!  Next to the annoying f*cks who insist on talking or playing with their f*cking phones, I hate popcorn.  Actually, now that I think of it, I'd place popcorn behind the f*cking losers who bring their f*cking babies to the movies, too.  But it has no place in my home.  No one is allowed to ever bring popcorn into my house.  That's just horse shit!

Beverly Hills Cop III is Racist

Several weeks ago, I promised to write a blurb about the movie Beverly Hills Cop III, which stars Eddie Murphy.  As a sequel, the movie missed the mark by a miracle mile.  An incredibly bad movie, that was most likely slapped together before there was even a real hard copy of the script secured.  It was directed by John Landis, who had teamed with Murphy on a couple previous projects, including the hit, "Coming To America".  Landis was also the genius who helmed the director's chair for classic cinema which includes the titles, "The Blues Brothers", "Trading Places" (also with Murphy) and "National Lampoon's Animal House".  However, John Landis dropped the ball on this movie, although I'm guessing it was the producer and the lack of a secured script.

When it aired on television last month, I didn't get to watch it in it's entirety, a loss that I'm actually thankful for, but what I did see of the film, was terribly racist.

Blatant racial humour, which by today's standards, would never be allowed, due to everyone's panties being bunched, is and was the norm in the 60's and 70's.  On many occasions, I shared conversations consumed with laughter and disbelief when reminiscing about the humour in Mel Brooks' classic, "Blazing Saddles".  "The new sheriff is a near...." always made us chuckle.  Humour, like that is barely expected in motion picture comedies in the 90's or, especially, the new millennium.  Not unless it's something from the mind of Quentin Tarantino...

Without getting too in depth with the storyline, Beverly Hills Cop III has Eddie Murphy's Axl Foley investigating a shooting that occurred in Detroit, where the culprits fled to SoCal, and more specifically, a Disney-esque amusement park called Wonder World, where the parks head is a beloved fellow fondly named, Uncle Dave.  There's a point in this farce where Uncle Dave is shot and presumed to be dead, Axl Foley being framed for the shooting.  Like wild-fire, news of the shooting spreads over television and radio, the description always the same.  "Wonder World founder, Uncle Dave, has been shot.  Description of his shooter is a black male."

That's as in-depth as the description gets.  A black male.  Suddenly, every uniform police officer in southern Los Angeles, is after Eddie Murphy's Axl.  Despite there being other African-Americans in the background, Eddie Murphy's the ONLY person of interest.

There's a seen where Axl ducks into a lavish Beverly Hills restaurant to use a pay phone.  The local news plays over a crowd gathered at the bar, which is a scene I've never seen occur in real life at ANY fancy restaurant I've ever attended, but I guess for the sake of this movie, they had to suspend belief.  "A black man shot Uncle Dave..." the news broadcaster says, and everyone's gaze goes from the TV set to Murphy ducked in the back of the restaurant on the telephone.

Is it racist?  Or, more specifically, is it 'racial profiling' that EVERYONE assumes Axl Foley must be the culprit who shot Uncle Dave?  There's even a point where Axl is witnessed by two police officers, accompanying Uncle Dave into the E.R., and even though they recognize that he is assisting in saving Uncle Dave's life, they still assume he's the guilty party when word comes over their radios.

The whole ordeal is disgusting.  A terrible movie and a very racist movie.

Lottery Isn't Comprised of Three Words

I was returning home from an excursion I'd taken at mid-day.  Suffice it to say, I wasn't in the best of moods, given a major inconvenience about an hour earlier, but I wasn't prepared for what happened when I stopped at a nearby gas station to pick up a lottery ticket.

I've rarely visited this location over the years, as it's situated in a very inconvenient place.  It's pumps face backward in relation to when you drive into the lot, but given that I don't buy my gasoline from any of the regular stations, opting instead to visit the Costco for it's lower prices, the odd placement of the gas pumps at the Shell station are barely an issue.  However, I only needed a lotto ticket.  I haven't any chance of winning the jackpot, on account that it's something that I want and need desperately, hence the unlikelihood that karma will allow it, but just in case, it's only slightly easier to win with a ticket in hand.

I've purchased lottery from this location before, albeit it hadn't been for more than a decade, I'm sure, but I slipped in quickly, with only this purchase on my mind.  Behind the counter was a lone female.  She was a bigger girl, both in height and girth.  I directed my inquiry to her as she sat perched atop a tall stool, with an abundant belly hanging down over her "cooch", and both hands tucked deep into the pockets of her bunny hug, sorry....  In the pockets of her hoodie.

"Could I get a 6/49 with the...." I asked, interrupted by a negative blast from the large Marge parked behind the counter, 

"N***a, please!!  We don't sell no lottery!!" she blurted out in response.

I paused for a split moment, although it felt like an eternity as her statement slowly soaked into my psyche.  For one thing, she pronounced the word 'lottery', like it was three words; "LAW-TRRR-EEE"!!  Another thing, "We don't sell no..." is a double-negative, which would conclude that they do, in fact, sell lottery.

I shook my head, then responded, "First.  That seems a little harsh.  And secondly, who the f*ck doesn't sell lottery?  Every place of convenience, sells lottery."

Still seated on her perch, hands still in her pockets, she just turned her head to look out the window.  "Yeah.  Well we don't!!"

Anyone in the Saskatoon-area who may read this, please stop supporting this location of Shell.  Normally, I could laugh this shit off, but holy f*ck, such a callous response to such an innocent query, seems inexcusable.