Up Chuck

The morning began as so many others had. The house was cool, still from the temperature drop overnight, but not so much that it was frigid.  I was applying deodorant before choosing a T-shirt for the day when the silence was interrupted by the hacking sound of my cat, Monkey.

He's lived with me for almost five years and despite my repeated efforts, the cat still refuses to vomit on the linoleum where it's easier to clean up and it's effects on my carpet is greatly reduced.  When first addressed, he actually followed my instruction, which was a huge win for me, but apparently in viewing the joy on my face, he quickly decided to stain my carpeted floors instead.  Now I have a slight leopard motif throughout my home from his many expulsions.

In the beginning, this would upset me.  Often I'd pull him aside, scold him heavily at the wrong that he'd committed and send him off with a quick rap to his bottom.  I must have done this too often as nowadays, when he vomits, he quickly makes shameful eye contact with me, then runs to hide.  These days, however, I don't get as upset with him, citing that this is simply one of the many "perks" of being a cat owner.

For a while, Monkey would get creative when depositing his vomit.  If he threw up near the fliers sitting by the front door awaiting being taken to the recycling bin, he'd pull a flier or two over his mess, hoping that I would never discover it.  The same went for the blanket I have draped over a suede chair I have in my front room.  Many many stains later, I received a cat-themed quilt as a gag gift from my sister, who was subsequently disappointed when I failed to be upset.  Upon opening the colourfully-wrapped gift, I knew straight away, what purpose it would be serving in my home.  The cat loved the small quilt, more so when he was able to pull the corner over whatever unfortunate deposit he may have made on that particular day.

Nowadays, I barely get upset.  Monkey knows that what he's done is wrong.  He visibly displays embarrassment and shame when confronted.  I still grab him, when I can, a task that often requires a distraction, then sit with him between my legs as we (I) clean up the mess.  He still believes that he's going to get a lickin', but is always surprised when I scratch him behind the ears and tell him it's okay.  I tell him that I understand and that because he's sorry, he won't get a scolding.

I've never beat my cat (I just realized that sounds dirty, like a reference to female masturbation), but I do believe in an authoritative smack to remind them of the rules.  In most cases, I don't smack him.  Everything has come into perspective, for me.  I realize that hairballs are a natural phenomena and given the circumstances, if the proverbial shoe were on the other foot, and I were faced to lick my own asshole, I'd probably vomit, too!!

Bullshit!!

There's a whole lot of hype, right now, calling for the closure of Sea World, due to it's unethical treatment of their marine life.  CNN aired the documentary, Blackfish, this past weekend and as bad as people thought the treatment of the orcas was, the reality is a hell of a lot worse.  Everyday people are up in arms about the cruelty bestowed upon dogs, cat, birds, turtles, snakes and a menagerie of other creatures great and small.  Barnum and Bailey recently announced that they'd be phasing out the animal acts, due to mismanagement and poor treatment of animals, although I would venture a guess and say that it's more financial than anything else.  Whatever the reason, it's nice to get out of subjecting these animals to unusual behaviors not displayed in nature.

Calgary Stampede is one of the largest spectacles on Earth.  All cowboy-related events.  I've never attended the Calgary Stampede, nor would I ever.  I can't wrap my head around the logic (or illogic, rather) of riding a horse really fast around barrels or roping a f*cking calf.  The latter may be necessary for large cattle ranches looking to catch offspring for branding or tagging, but why make a big f*cking show around it?  What are those poor calves thinking?  Constantly running and up down, up down, up down.  F*ck off, already!!

Bronco busting....  Okay.  I'd imagine manly men since the beginning of time have been egging each other on, waging money and honour to those ballsy enough to climb on the biggest baddest steed and ride that motherf*cker until it's spirit is broken and can be ridden from that point on, but bull riding?  When and where, in time, was it ever necessary to ride a motherf*cking bull?!?

All these butt-reaming idiots, with their ten gallon idiot hats pulled down under their chins, desperately clinging on for dear life for eight seconds.  Eight f*cking seconds.  These cowboys march around with hubcap belt buckles, acting like they're the manliest of men, but they're willing to only hold on for less than a sixth of a minute?  Firemen are frickin' lunatics, but they're more manly because they  run into fires 'n' shit, but no.  Cowboys are the toast of the town.  Bullshit!!

Nowadays, I see those stupid motherf*ckers have cast aside their gay-as-f*ck cowboy hats, for full on helmets with full face shields.  Afraid of injury.  Full helmets and body armour, all to avoid injury.  Ya wanna avoid injury, hero?  Don't f*cking ride a bull, ya dumb bastards!!  Organizers even blunt the end of the bull's horns, for the avoidance of being gored.  Where's the danger, now?

As a naive child, the lion and tiger acts were always my favourite circus acts.  Later, as I aged and matured, I came to resent the trainers and organizations who exploit these poor animals.  One year, at the summer fair in the city, here, they had a tiger act.  The show was outside, which was fine, but between shows, the tigers could be seen locked up in cramped metal cages.  Their tongues wagging outside gaping mouths, heavily panting in the midday sun.  It was horrible.  The people I was in attendance with, wished to stop and watch the show, much to my chagrin. While the crowd encompassing the show area, oohed and aah'd in amazement, I silently wished the tigers would conclude enough is enough and lash out against the trainer, killing him in the process.  Sadly, though, if this were the case, officials would blame the animal, not the human-element.  Blame the wild animal for acting and reacting as they would in their native kingdom, and pay the price with their lives, ultimately.  Given the lives they lead in captivity, perhaps suicide by proxy would be the way to go for these otherwise stunning creatures.

Establishments, like Sea World, would be fine, in my opinion, if they acted more as an educational institution.  Catch and rescue sea life in distress.  Nurse them back to health, educating the public in exchange for monetary gain, to assist in the recuperation of the sickly animals, but shy away from the bullshit dog 'n' pony shows of having the Killer Whales swimming in circles, waving their fins and splashing the crowds, like dancing bears.  Stop the bullshit!!

#ShutDownSeaWorld
#ShutDownCalgaryStampede
#ShutdownAllAnimalActs

Fashion Faux Pas

Terrestrial radio, these past few days have been giving me some much needed inspiration on topics to write about in this blog.  In no way, however, am I going to cast aside my Sirius Satellite, for rudimentary radio.  That type of aural media is much to vestigial for my delicate ears.

However, the dullards of the local rock station posed a query to their listening audience, regarding fashion styles that people generally dislike.  I never had a chance to hear what the responses were, but based on mere speculation, I'd guess that a majority of folks would be completely against droopy pants.  I often wish that there were a Fashion Police Car roaming our streets, handing out citations to all those guilty of this fashion-do-not.  If that were the case, though, I'd be guilty on a couple of occasions myself.  The most recent being just yesterday in the parking lot at the grocery store.  While carrying a flat of soda pop to my truck, my belt-line decided to take a little trip down to my knees to catch up on gossip.  Thankfully, I caught them about mid-thigh and through an uncomfortable wide stance, shimmied my way to my vehicle.  Luckily, for all those unfortunate to witness the spectacle, I was wearing clean underwear.

On two occasions in two different venues, I witnessed a young man, maybe the same man, I don't know.  I'm terrible with faces, but on two different occasions, one at the SuperStore on eighth and the other at the nearby Dairy Queen, I saw a young fella walk away from me, pants down below his ass, sporting a wide brown racing stripe, let's say.  Unless, that racing stripe is going to make you move faster, nobody needs to see it.  Actually, regardless of speed, no one needs to see your shit strap, asshole!!

On one occasion, about six years ago, I was carrying a large heavy box out of my house and around the corner into my garage, and though my shorts managed to stay up where they were supposed to be in the preceding two or three hours, they "decided" to take this opportunity to fall down around my ankles.  My neighbour happened to be outside right at this time, too.  "Good morn- - -, ing?"  I heard him call out.  No sooner had I dumped the box into my truck than I was bent over pulling my maverick shorts back up to my waist.

As much as that style bugs the shit out of me, I think the one that especially bothers me, even though it's not offensive, by any means, are those new hats with the straight brim.  I f*cking hate those hats.  They look so stupid, hanging off everyone's heads, slightly askew, twisted to one side with the label still stuck firmly to the peak.  You can't look f*cking ghetto, with a f*cking tag still attached.  You're not Minnie Pearl, for f*ck sake, and Minnie Pearl, for that matter, wasn't ghetto, even if she was a redneck!!

Many times, I found these stupid hats left behind somewhere and I've fought off a strong urge to curve that peak.  Make people conform to what the masses look like.  It took some time before I actually learned that the peak design is different in the two styles of hat, but aside from that, these flat-brimmed hats need to go.

They're too f*cking stupid, especially when coupled with the idiots purposely wearing pants eight sizes too small so they have no choice but to wear them around their knees.  F*ck them, too!  Maybe I will never win an award or be posted on some magazine cover, bestowed with a prize of being the Best Dressed, but I'm satisfied knowing that I'll never look like a f*cking douche bag, either!!

Minnie Pearl was a character who appeared on a
television variety show called "Hee Haw" (1969-97)
She was notorious for wearing a hat with the price tag
still attached. I fail to see the humour, but they're rednecks.
They do marry their cousins, after all.

GLOBS!!

I heard it announced on the radio this morning.  Tent Caterpillars are in season.  They seem to come in waves.  The radio claims every five to six years, but personally, I've never seen them since I was a young kid and back then, they were extremely bad.

Clumps of them were attached to the trees and it was scary to be near them, for no other reason than if they fell on you, they were really f*cking gross.  Like Fear Factor gross.  Of course, as young kids often do, killing them became somewhat of a sport, each child attempting to make a bigger mess by killing them.  Myself and a couple of friends learned a way to really gross out the girls in our class, by stepping on one half of them, forcing their innards to explode out the other end.  It was quite inhumane, by today's standards.., by any day's standards, actually.  However, they are a pest that kill trees by the acre, and apparently they get really really bad every five or six years.

According to the radio personality on the radio this morning, he'd spent the weekend out of town and the Tent Caterpillars were quite bad.  "You haven't seen bad," he explained, "Until you see about a thousand of them crawling up the side of a house."

"You p*ssy!" I thought, recalling how bad I'd seen them when I was a kid.  While a thousand on the side of a house might appear quite bad, that's a drop in a bucket compared to the shit I saw...

It was this time of year, about a month before school let out for the summer.  As I said, the Tent Caterpillars were bad.  We had a couple clumps of trees in our school yard and the caterpillars were merciless, chewing away every leaf within eye shot.  Somehow, many of them had made the long trek from the far end of the school yard to the school, itself, and began the arduous trek up the side of the building, to form it's cocoon, I'm assuming.  It was here where our paths would intertwine and what caterpillars survived being eaten by predators soaring above the playground, we students would terrorize and kill in the most grotesque of manners.  However, the caterpillars would get their revenge on us..., and how!!

Every year kids from the schools were sent home with permission slips to be signed by mom or dad, which would allow us to venture north of the city to learn about Batoche, Fort Carlton and the whole Louis Riel Rebellion bullshit.  It's something that's probably quite interesting, not for a kid barely over the age of ten.  I'd kind of like to take in the experience, now that I'm old enough to appreciate it, but I'm a little hesitant as my opinions on the matter differ greatly from the majority.  Politics, aside, we children climbed aboard a swanky tour bus, similar to a Greyhound and ventured toward Fort Carlton, by way of Duck Lake.

As we grew closer to the site of the North-West rebellion, the number of Tent Caterpillars grew larger by epic proportions.  The radio guy thought a thousand on the broadside of a building was overwhelming, but until witness a lone highway, blackened with caterpillars traversing across, moving in one motion from a sea of obliterated trees to a fresh green forest across the road, so thick that the bus that you're riding in, needs to slow it's speed, as it gently sways from side-to-side, it's wheel wells caked with the carcasses of expired worms, for us morbid children to look out the back window to see two naked grey asphalt trails slowly disappear, the blackness of millions more caterpillars replacing those freshly dead.

If we thought this sight was bad, it was going to get a f*ck of a lot worse.  Fort Carlton, itself, was under siege.  Not since Louis Riel and his menagerie of goons, had the fort experienced such distress.  Literally, GLOBS of slithering slimy worms would collect in every nook and cranny of the fort.  While presenters tried to explain the history of the fort and the Metis-uprising, no student (or teacher, for that matter) could concentrate, everyone's gaze planted on those hoards of worms.  Each ball intertwined with itself wriggling and wiggling reminiscent of the orgies put on by the infamous Roman Emperor, Caligula, only these would make even the most season cocksmith blush.  Every attempt to enter a building turned into a stunt similar to those performed by Indiana Jones.  Run, tuck and roll, practically, to avoid being sprayed by falling balls of furry caterpillars.

It was truly disgusting and while it doesn't give me nightmares, though it really should, I am reminded that no matter how bad shit seems, it can only get worse.  I don't complain about the weather, because no matter how cold it gets, it'll never equate that minus seventy-two degree Celsius storm I was in, in Manitoba.  And no matter how many hundreds or thousands of Tent Caterpillars I come across this summer, it'll never be equal to those I experienced in Fort Carlton and Batoche, when I was a kid.  That being said, I guess I'll be skipping that trip this year, as an adult too.  I'm much more squeamish in adulthood, than I was as a kid.

Fort Carlton, SK, as it is today...

The Bowls Are No Laughing Matter

I was sitting quietly on my bus, lost in thought when I heard a quiet voice beckon my attention.  "Mr. Bus Dwivah," he said softly, sounding almost apologetic, "My sista just punched me in the bowls."

I'd never heard this child make so much as a peep, before.  No 'good mornings' or 'good-byes', so I wasn't accustomed to his form of speech.  That aside, being a fellow dude, I know the seriousness of being hit below the belt.  It hurts to even joke about getting hit in the nuts.

I followed him back to his seat and spoke to his sister, who's a couple years younger than him.  A tiny little lady, she can't be anymore than kindergarten age, and even more quiet than the boy.

"Did you hit your brother?"  I asked.  She shrugged her shoulders and hunkered down in her seat, before whispering, "Yes."

"Are you sorry?"  I asked.  She shrugged.  "I think you need to apologize to your brother." I added, to which she shrugged her shoulders again and spoke a single word apology.  "Sorry?"

"That sounded like a question." I said.  I think you need to move to the front of the bus, for now." I said.  This form of justice doesn't seem to dissuade any of the others I pull forward, but having no idea how to speak to children, this is the only form of authority I feel I can wield.  When I requested she move forward, she stubbornly hunkered down even lower in the seat, and informed me that she was quite happy where she was and that she would not be moving.

A part of me almost wanted to grab the supervising teacher standing outside my bus, but I didn't want to get the school involved in a sibling squabble.  Finally, the boy, who's nuts had been punched, said that he'd move to the front.  I immediately told him that he needn't take the punishment and told him to sit wherever he liked.

I don't know what led up to the little girl punching her brother in the "bowls".  I doubt there's any problem so extreme at four or five years of age to warrant a punch to the nards.  Then again, I wonder just how hard she'd punched him.  He was quite able to spring to his feet, straight away, and come calling on me to intervene.  I, personally, haven't had a lot of experience being hit there, but admittedly, I have had the misfortune of sitting on them when climbing into my truck.  When I owned my Camaro, this misfortune happened quite often.  Thankfully, not in my Mustang, yet (knock on wood).  But whenever such an accident happened, I could barely say my own name, let alone go for a walk.

Whatever the case, it doesn't matter.  It's all speculation.  When I dropped the kids at there spot, the mother of the two kids in question was present and I made sure to inform her of the physical exchange between her daughter and son.  I repeated that I doubt any problem for kids so young, would warrant in a rebuttal like this.  After all, The Bowls Are No Laughing Matter.

I Pity Da Fool!!

Wednesday night, May 20th, marked the end of an era.  David Letterman signed off from the Late Show for the last time, ending his talk show run, over thirty years in the making.  Two nights earlier, there was a special that aired, hosted by Ray Romano which highlighted some of the epic moments captured and thought up by Letterman's genius.  How do you capture all the fantastic moments shared with viewers over nearly a lifetime of television.  You can't.  And though Dave didn't have any guests on that epic last show Wednesday night, choosing instead to air some of his favourite moments and take a few minutes at the show's end to thank everyone involved in allowing him to come into our livingrooms every night, more favourable moments still had to be sacrificed.  So this morning when the radio announced that it was Mr. T's birthday, I was instantly reminded of a moment between Mr. T and David Letterman, decades ago.

Mr. T came onto "Late Night", the NBC incarnation of the Letterman show, to promote his film debut in Rocky III.  In the film, he's promoted as a no-nonsense, street-tough, battle-ready gladiator of the boxing world, similar to his life outside of acting.  He was a door man for many of the tough night clubs in Chicago, as well as a personal bodyguard to some well-known personalities, although he remained tight-lipped when asked for details by Mr. Letterman.

T came onto Letterman's set and stayed in "character" the entire time, making himself a tough guest, rest assured, but that toughness added to the charm of the interview.  Always the showman, Dave made light of the situation, whether it be of his comedic genius or genuine nervousness about this strange individual with all the gold jewelry and strange haircut.

The one moment that really stood out, for me, was when Dave asked about the unique name that Mr. T had.  Right away, he responded... er, make that preached his answer, bringing in race relations and such.  How people would call him boy, so to avoid that he changed his name to what it was then and has remained to this day.  "The first thing out of their mouth is MISTER, my middle name is the period and my last name is T."

In the decades that followed, the tough no-bullshit guy that we witnessed in Rocky III and on the Letterman show that night in 1982, fell by the wayside.  T's real personality came out and he turned out to be a nice fella.  I wouldn't want to piss him off, mind you.  I'm sure he could still kick the ever-lovin' shit outta ya, if he deemed it necessary, but a nice guy, nevertheless.

The radio had the date wrong, this morning.  Mr. T's birthday was actually yesterday.  He turned 63 years young.  And I pity da fool who didn't tweet him a Happy Birthday message...  Which reminds me.  I have to tweet Mr. T a Happy Birthday message.

To watch Mr. T's first appearance on "Late Night with David Letterman"
Copy and paste the address below to your
Address bar (or whatever it's called) at the top of your page.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mRi180Kkb6Y

Kids Say The God Damnedest Things

For a few months, now, I've been driving a school bus.  Not an ideal vocation, but given it's the only company that would hire me after ten months of unemployment, there are worse jobs to have out there and for far less money.   The hours are fantastic, less than two hours overall, but those are dissected by about six hours.  Six hours that I probably should be using more advantageously than I have, but instead I watch TV and or snooze on the couch.  I have learned a thing or two during this short tenure.  I actually enjoy the driving aspect and plan on parlaying this gig into something that pays a f*ck of a lot better.  Another thing I've learned, although I've always suspected it as the truth.  Kids, for the most part, are dumb as shit!!  Whether it's trying to get them to understand how to sit in a seat straight, so as to not fall out or under the seats in the event of an accident or just getting them to keep their clothes on.  Yes, there's one little trouble maker who likes to remove his pants and shake his booty in his seatmate's face.  I often scratch my head in bewilderment, because I've nothing to bang my head up against.

The other morning, though, one of the troublemakers got on the bus for school.  He's not the strip-down kid, but the tattletale who rats out every other kid on the bus, never admitting to any of his own shortcomings.  He sat across from "stripper"-kid and began telling him about the fantastic life that he and his family were about to embark on.

"My mom made a thousand dollars." he told the children around him.  "She made a thousand dollars!  Do you know how much that is?"

The children around him muttered with confusion, no one piping up to tell him that a thousand dollars really wasn't that much.

"That's enough money that my mom is going to buy a brand new car.  And she's going to get a house.  And she's thinking about getting a limo."

I smiled at the innocence and idiocy of his statements, looking on into the bright sun that was blinding my view of the road.

"A limo," he began to explain to those unaware of what it was, "Is a long car.  It's really long and we all sit in the back.  Only rich people get limousines, and that's what we are now, because my mom made a thousand dollars."

There was a short pause, then he continued with his speech, "Yeah.  We're thinking about building a bouncy castle for my birthday.  We might build two bouncy castles, though.  I'd like to build two.  One that looks like a castle and I don't know what the other should look like yet."

It was about this time that I pulled up to his school and the kids all filed off.  I thought about how kids really don't know the value of a dollar, anymore.  They have shit much too easy, these days.  It reminded me of a TV show where the kids on there spoke of how "it used to be in the olden days".  

"If you wanted to watch a TV show, you had to be there at the exact time to watch it.  There wasn't any recording and watching it later." the character said, shocking all his siblings at the preposterousness of the idea.

I guess it's like Art Linkletter used to say, "Kids say the darnedest things."

If Stupidity is a Handicap, Then We Are Doomed!

While awaiting my turn in line at the Wal-Mart, a young mother was unloading her cart in front of me.  Accompanying her was a small child and another who was visibly older.  The eldest child was fidgety, picking at the magazines and candy in the impulse lane, finally setting her attention on a cold bottle of Coca-Cola in a nearby cooler.  "Mom." she said, trying to engage her mother.  "Mom!!  Can I have?"

The pencil-thin young woman turned to her daughter, allowing me the first real look at her.  She was a frail thing, who didn't look very old.  The eldest daughter was clearly over the age of ten, possibly entering her teens, so I speculate that she was a teen mom.  Her frame was petite as were her facial features.  The only prominence that this woman had, were a small cluster of stars tattooed over her left eye.  They appeared to be fairly fresh, although, there wasn't any redness or swelling accompanying them.

"NO!!" the young mother said sternly, shaking her finger, "You need to learn to spend your money more responsibly.  Don't waste it on frivolous things."

I smirked at what she had said.  Not that saving your money for smarter purchases is a preposterous notion, but that such sage advice would come from a person who had recently wasted money on getting stars of varying sizes tattooed on her face.

I thought nothing of it, beyond that.  I paid for my goods and ventured outside, where I met up with the able-bodied family once more.  This time they were climbing into a shitty little red Chevy Cavalier, parked in the handicapped spot nearest the door.  It is sights like this that bother me.  If you're not physically incapable of walking a few extra meters, then you shouldn't be taking up those spots.  It doesn't matter if you have the handicapped placard in your window.  If the handicapped person is not with you, don't f*cking park in the spot, because the last time I checked, stupidity wasn't considered a handicap.

The Batmen

Earlier tonight, was the Floyd Mayweather/Pacquiao fight in Las Vegas, Nevada.  The much talked about fight that has filled the public airwaves for weeks upon weeks.  It was touted as the biggest match of the century.  I don't know if that last statement was true or not, but I must admit that it's the first sign that professional boxing still lives, as far as I'm concerned.  I know very little about the two men facing off against one another.  I recall Manny Pacquiao faced off and demolished comedian, Daniel Tosh in a fight that rivaled the intensity of the legendary Butterbean/Johnny Knoxville fight.  As for Mayweather, I remember him from Wrestlemania XXIV where he knocked out the Big Show with a right hook, clad with brass knuckles.  Between that and his repeated arrests for beating women, I had my fingers crossed that he'd get beaten like a government mule.

Whomever was the chosen favourite by the masses, everyone had an opinion and offered them readily via social media.  I love the immediacy that Twitter and alike provide to us, the common folk.  Other information provided about the event tonight, was thousands of looky-loos reporting who they saw in the crowd.  The likes of Justin Bieber, 50 Cent, Beyonce and Jay-Z were spotted looking on, just to name a few.  The names that caught my eye, however were those who are best known for their portrayal of the Caped Crusader, Batman.

In one tweet, the author admitted to popping out of her seat when she noticed, Michael Keaton, Christian Bale, Ben Affleck and even Adam West, all peppered throughout the Las Vegas crowd in attendance.  I thought for a second, they forgot Val Kilmer and George Clooney.  Then I paused for a moment, realizing...  We would ALL like to forget about Val Kilmer and George Clooney, as far as their failed attempts at portraying the Dark Knight.

I never heard a whole lot about the fight.  Some people posted ten second videos of the action, but it wasn't enough to get a real feel of what was happening.  Even those who'd promised to tweet a play-by-play of the action in the ring, must've been so overwhelmed by what was going on that they simply forgot to do so.  Then again, at a $99 cost for the Pay-Per-View, I wouldn't waste my time burying my nose in my smart phone, rather than focusing on the television.  From the few tweets that I did read, it sounded like Pacquiao was giving Mayweather a thorough beating.  This is why I was shocked when I read about the outcome... SPOILER ALERT, apparently that piece of shit Mayweather won the fight by unanimous decision.  This is truly disappointing.  I was hoping Mayweather would get beaten to a bloody pulp, like the Italian Stallion did at the end of Rocky.  It's written that Pacquiao was fighting with an injured shoulder, which begs the question, given how much money was on the line, wouldn't the boxing commission want both fighters to be in pique condition?  I don't know.  I don't follow this sport.

In the comics and movies, Batman often fought the bad guys like, Bane and Joker while under physical duress.  Perhaps someone should have whispered in Manny's ear and reminded him that he is the PacMan, not the Batman. 

It's All Greek To Me

As a guy, I of course hate asking for directions.  I'm not entirely certain of this, but I believe it's a predetermined trait exclusive to the male DNA.  Almost as if a female scientist began the Human Genome study with hopes of pinpointing the exact strand that makes a man unwilling to consult outside aid for directions.  Personally, I can read a map pretty damn well, so my reluctance is rarely called upon.  However, I have been known to swallow my pride, pull the car over and ask a local for directions for a desired destination.  More often than not, I'm given adequate, easy-to-follow instructions and we're well on our way.  However sometimes...  Sometimes you get someone who, I don't know if they're deliberately trying to f*ck with me or if they're really that f*cking stupid.

There's a plethora of terms that can translate into the measurable mile, but it's the non-specifics that tend to plague my fragile mind.  "It's just over yonder." they'll say, leaving me scratching my head, wondering, is it past 'yonder'?  Like, do I have to physically cross over yonder to get there?  What the f*ck is a 'yonder', anyway?  Or they'll say, "It's up the road a piece."  A piece of what?  A piece of pie?  A piece of dog shit?  I hear that it's English that's pouring out of their mouth holes, but I haven't got the foggiest idea what the f*ck they're saying...  The one term that takes the proverbial cake (I wonder if it was a 'piece of cake' that other fella meant..,) is when they wave their arm in the direction and tell me, "It's down the road a spell."

I wasn't such a great student in school.  Some reading difficulties and I tended to daydream a little, but what I was able to catch in my math class, none of it referred to a spell.  My English classes covered grammar and spelling, and I can spell words better than most, though I do falter once in a blue moon, but as for math class, a 'spell' never was mentioned.  Granted, I never took calculus or trigonometry or any of those complex math sciences.  I don't know what the f*ck all that shit was about, but I can be fairly confident that no spells or sorcery was dealt with in those forums, either.  So, what the f*ck is a 'spell'?

How far is it?  What is it's measurable distance?  Being Canadian, I (along with most of the world) was taught the Metric System.  A series of tens, hundreds and thousands, blah blah blah, and so on.  It's a fairly simple program for measuring distance and mass, that the Americans seem to dismiss a little too easily.  My father was raised learning the old Imperial system that measured distance with miles and feet.  Weight with pounds and mass with gallons and/or bushels.  I remember asking one time, how big a bushel was and he pointed to a basket and said "About as big as that."  I was so confused by it all.  However, he never once mentioned the elusive 'spell'.  He never informed the family that he was going to go fishing at such 'n' such lake, located one hundred spells from home.  No.  He never did that, because he was a smart man.  Not some f*ckin' rube from around the way.  (*Apologies for using 'around the way'.  I don't know how far that is.)

Mathematics is universal.  Literally.  No matter where you go on the planet or out in the galaxy.  Wherever you are, two plus two will always equal four.  And whatever you call it, a mile will equal a mile and a kilometer will equal a kilometer.  And I guess, the same will go for stupidity.  As Forrest Gump's mama used to say, "Stupid is as stupid does."  If people are going to continue using f*cking dumb-ass terminology, then we're always going to have men parked at the side of the road, frantically looking over a map, rather than asking for directions.