Weight Loss Starts With 'P'

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

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

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

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

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

An Imperfect World

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lowered Expectations

Given the strange behaviors that occur behind the locked doors of the hotels and motels scattered across this fair land, it's not surprising what a black light may reveal.  There is some peace of mind that comes with "out of sight, out of mind".  What you don't know, can't hurt you.  If, however, the stains are visible to the naked eye, it doesn't take a wandering mind to wonder what lurks beyond our field of vision.

For a price of just under three hundred clams, one would expect top notch service would be included.  Certainly, clean sheets on the bed shouldn't be too far out of the purview of what one might find.  Granted this hotel, where I'm staying in Regina, has a "Reduce/Reuse" program in effect, which basically means the maid service won't exchange your sheets until your departure.  This concept doesn't seem too unreasonable to me, however, considering my surprising discovery, this morning, I'm questioning whether the maid service is sticking to this premise faithfully.

I slept, surprisingly comfortable, last night, messing the bed spread only minutely.  I'm not comfortable with maids coming into my room to tidy up in my absence, so I quickly made up the bed, myself, and in the process, looked down to find a small crimson spot on the snow white sheet.  I slept on the other side of the bed and don't have any open wounds on my lower extremities, so there's no way this spot originated with me.  It had to have existed before my arrival yesterday afternoon.

As I stated, the bill that I'm going to be stuck with is just under $300, which for a two-night stay, seems a little hefty, but the value aside, for such a price, I would come to expect that the sheets be clean.  I don't give a shit if the previous occupant never laid their head down on this bed, opting for the one closer to the A/C unit.  I want... Nay!  I demand clean sheets, no matter what.  It's not like this spot could elude one's vision.  It's dark shade is such a vast contrast in comparison to the blizzard snow white sheet.  Even a half blind pirate, with a patch over one eye, could see this button-sized dollop forever present on the sheet.

I took a photo and posted it to my Twitter feed.  It took a few hours, but the kind folks at @DaysInnCanada, responded with a Toll-Free number for me to call in and give a more detailed account of my discovery.  I wasn't going to bother, but if it helps alleviate some of the heady cost, perhaps I may do as requested.

If you're in the Regina-area, feel free to stay wherever you'd like, including the Days Inn on Eastgate Drive.  It's a very nice and impressive venue, but you may want to pull the bed spread back and inspect them sheets.  Who knows what kind of foreign shit you may discover.

A Hidden Agenda

It's not often that I get to recycle a picture for my blog, but when the opportunity arises, it only makes sense.

As stated in my previous blog, I've traveled from my home in sweet Saskatoon, to the bowels of Hell, aka Regina, for the bittersweet weekend among friends, to commemorate and celebrate the memory of our friend and family member, Darcy.

The last few years, we've stayed at a hotel on the northern end of the city, but this year we've moved to a new spot.  I'm not certain when this establishment was built, but the rooms are nicer, bigger and way cleaner.  To put it plainly, I'm not afraid to sit on the bed spreads while wearing shorts.  The rooms all, from what I've seen thus far, are all generic with practically the same artwork on every wall, but over all, I believe this experience will be for the best.

The location is superb, seated just off a main drag.  There's a decent speckling of restaurants and fast food joints all around, unlike the other place that had a Burger Baron across the street and a Tim Horton's about a block south.  The Burger Baron's food is so sub-par to what should be considered edible, and the walk to the Timmy Ho's is not for the faint of heart.

I got to visit the Carl's Jr, down the street from this Days Inn and though it fell short of my experience when I visited the one in Kelowna, British Columbia, the food was still okay.  The only downside to that visit was the bearded toilet and the creepy albino dude who lurked behind the corner of my booth, readily available to jump out and inquire about my meal.  He asked three frickin' times.

The hotel, costs about the same per night as the previous one did, only this one seems to have a plethora of hidden fees that the other never seemed to have, or at least hid better than this one does.  The room is $128 per night, which by my math, comes out to about $256.  I'm being charged just under $300.  When asked about the extra charges, the quirky fellow behind the desk proudly answered, "Taxes and other fees."

Taxes, I understand.  We can't get away from that, unfortunately.  No matter what a person does or buys, the government needs to have their hand out for their share, too.  It was the "fees" that sparked my interest.  "What sort of fees?"  I asked.

"Well," he explained, "There's the destination fee."

"Destination fee?" I asked, "What's a destination fee?"

"Regina charges visitors a fee for coming to the city." he said.

I found this reasoning, absurd.  "The city charges people to visit their city?  That's ridiculous."  I said.

That sounds as stupid as the conversation with the bank last week, who told me that the bank charges it's customers a fee for banking with them.  Now this city charges people a fee for the "privilege" of visiting their city?  That doesn't make any sense.

"It's to help pay for events like the Exhibition (fair) or Agribition (agricultural exhibition)." he explained, without so much as agreeing that the premise seemed deceitful or devious and no matter how much prodding I made, he wouldn't budge and admit that it was stupid.

I look at situations like this and wonder where I fell short, unable to think up a helpful service that people require then charging them a f**king fee for being so helpful.  I couldn't do such a thing, though.  As much of a scoundrel as I can be at times, I can't be a complete asshole.  I wanna be an asshole, but I can't bring myself to it.  Regina, on the other hand, in addition to being a giant toilet, is proving itself to be every bit the asshole I've always suspected it to be.

Double Digits - Ten Years of "Loud 'n' Proud"

It was New Year's Day 2006, when I received the phone call that my friend, Darcy Corrigan, had passed away unexpectedly.  After only twenty-eight years on this mortal coil, his shining light was extinguished, but not forgotten from the hearts of all who knew and loved him.

Darcy was a generous, funny, smart, no bullshit kind of guy and though I wasn't as close to him as some, having known this amazing fella, has influenced my life in more ways than I could even know.  His generosity, alone, was more than I could fathom.  One story sticks out particularly.  It occurred just a little over a month before his passing.  It was my birthday and there were lots of people taking me out for dinner followed by some drunken karaoke.  A common practice for a few of us, at the time.  Darcy was living and working out of town, at the time, so I never expected to see him show up for my little soiree, but he did.  Despite working all that Saturday and having to open his store up the following Sunday morning, Darcy traveled the two-and-a-half-PLUS distance, following his shift, to pick me up from my house, take me to where everyone was meeting for supper, then on to the karaoke bar, doing in all with the often seen, rarely photographed smile on his face, as observed in the photograph above.

I think of Darcy everyday.  I have a tattoo on my left forearm, as a memoriam to Darcy, of a lone woman in a red dress.  "Why such an obscure tattoo?", you ask.  On one of the many occasions that we had gone out for a rousing night of drink and song, a friend and I thought it'd be funny if we signed up our usually silent cohorts for a song.  The first was "Funky Town" for the normally reserved Boyd, who performed to song stunningly.  So good he was, in fact, that months later when another friend attempted the song, he got up to instruct them.  For Darcy, however, we decided to tame things down for him and requested "Lady In Red" by Chris de Burgh.  My friend and I were waiting to chuckle when he bombed, but there were nothing but the sweetest notes coming from his breath.  So memorable was his performance, that every time I've heard that song on the radio, since, I am reminded of Darcy.

It was nine years ago, New Year's Day, when I answered the phone and received the heartbreaking news.  I never cried at the death of my father in the same way that I did with Darcy's passing.  Maybe it was because of how unexpected it was.  At the funeral, I met Darcy's family for the first time.  It was no wonder that Darcy grew into the incredible man that he was, surrounded by such a loving family as this.  It was a time where it was beneficial to be a wallflower.  To sit back and listen to all the amazing stories where Darcy was a main focal point.  I got to see and live his life via some sort of magic in those couple of days and in the years since.

Every year, beginning in the summer of 2006, a mass conglomeration of family treks from the recesses of western Canada, migrating to Regina for a Saskatchewan Roughrider game, in what has come to be known as: The Darcy Corrigan Memorial Game Weekend.  The numbers have dwindled some, from that initial game, but given how tough life has been getting for people, I can't blame them.  I've fallen on tough financial times in the last five-plus years, but as tough as I see it, I think of how Darcy traveled all that distance to spend a few hours with me and friends on my birthday, only to race home again to open his store for the morning traffic.  That kind of generosity, boggles my mind, to this day.  I go to the Memorial Weekend, just for that reason.  That and I love his family.  More so than my own, in some instances, if I gotta be honest.

Darcy's been absent from this world of a little over nine years, but he's remained LOUD 'n' PROUD in our hearts and minds for TEN years.  So this weekend, whether you knew Darcy or not, I hope you'll raise your glass in his memory, anyway.  R.I.P. Darcy Corrigan.  I can't wait to meet up with you on the other side.

Failed Promise

The day held such promise when I woke up this morning.  I had an important meeting to attend in the afternoon which pertained to my job as a school bus driver.  At the end of the school year, last June, I discussed with one of the people in the office about the possibility of switching routes.  The one that I'd been driving since getting this job was nice, but my bus is parked all the way across town and I've accumulated more mileage on my vehicle than I have on the bus I'd been driving.  Not to mention the damage I've incurred from passerbys.  My truck wasn't in pristine condition, but it never had all the key scratches, either.  Some brave motherf**ker is doing it.  The street where we're made to park our vehicles for the duration of our routes, is not in the nicest of neighbourhoods.

In addition, the unbearable amount of time that it takes to make the trek home, is almost an hour in some instances.  Ten or fifteen minutes to drive to the bus lot, an hour or more to come home.

So when the mention of different routes being available, with buses already situated at the lot near my house, I was told that it was quite likely I could get one of those, a trade-up in my books, that would ease a shit ton of stress that my feeble mind has endured for the last six months.  So when I woke up this morning, everything seemed brighter.  Full of promise and wonder, however that plane took a serious nose dive when I was handed the route information for the same route as I had in the spring.

"What's this?" I asked, "I was told I'd be getting a new route.  One situated closer to my home."  The woman behind the desk shrugged her shoulders and instructed me to call the boss lady, whom I did manage to approach after the meeting.  She shrugged her shoulders and told me, "We don't have any room for you to park your bus at the north lot." Without further discussion, she turned and proceeded to ignore me.  That's poor management, in my opinion.

I think she misunderstood me, believing that I was requesting to park my bus at the north end, rather than giving me the new route that was promised me in June.  So one of two things needs to happen and happen very soon.  One:  I need to meet with her again and explain more clearly what my request is and was; Or two:  I need to hurry, get my Class 2 license and get a better job.  Clearly, my needs are not being met and therefore, I need to go somewhere where my needs will be met.  I just need to get this reading thing down, otherwise I'm totally f*cked!!

**Throwing more stress onto my already strained mind, during our safety meeting today, it was announced that there has been three instances of school buses being shot at, this year alone, in our fair City of Saskatoon.  I didn't think violence like that existed here, but now I got that bullshit weighing on my mind.  What the f*ck?!?**

Near Death Experience

My life flashed before my eyes, as I gazed back into the bowl to inspect the damage.  The sight was a blood curdling crimson red.  I was horrified at what might be afoot, now, with regards to my continuing spiraling health. In addition to the plethora of ailments that have plagued me over the past few years, I speculated that something truly sinister was invading my body and I would soon be visiting another battery of invasive medical specialists poking and prodding my body, humming and hawing with great speculation, wrought with supposition and very little certainty.  More medical professionals labeling me an "odd duck", which is not a proper medical terminology.

What I saw in that toilet bowl was horrific.  Like a murder scene from "Dexter".  A few shards of muddied feculence blanketed with the deepest crimson colour.  A colour so intense that if someone drove up in a hot rod of the same hue, it'd surely turn onlooker heads, but splashed inside the toilet bowl was true horror and a real cause for concern.

"What will become of my boy?" I thought, in reference to my cat.  My mother is getting on in years and will be unable to take care of a feline friend.  My sister already has a St. Bernard, whom my cat, Monkey, detests greatly, not to mention his dislike of children.

What of my other possessions?  My house?  My truck?  My car?  So many things that I have in my greedy hands that I don't want to share with others in the event of my untimely passing.  What the hell am I going to...?  Wait a second!!

"Awe, shit!!" I said, aloud, having just remembered I had beets for supper, last night.  "That explains the ungodly sight."

An overwhelming sigh of relief erupted from my breath.  I would survive, after all.  What with all the healthy meals I've been preparing, as of late, I expect to live a very long time.., as dreadful as that idea is to bear.

Money Grubber

Someone got f*cked out of their money.  I don't know who it was, but someone f*cked up and an innocent person lost almost two hundred dollars.

I went down to the bank to make a substantial payment on my credit card.  It's a ScotiaBank card and I wouldn't even have it, if it weren't for the fact I earn points that go towards FREE movies at any Cineplex-Odeon theater.  I applied a few years ago, when the program first began and I've been earning a shit ton of free movies ever since. I'm not the most responsible guy in the world and often forget to make regular payments, forcing myself to make large payments when I'm finally reminded via a pressing letter from the bank's head office.  Today, I made such a payment.

As I was readying myself to exit the bank, the teller, a Middle-Eastern fellow named Rishi, expressed that I owed a $20 overdraft fee on my checking account.  I was flabbergasted as I don't have a checking account with this bank.  My dealings with the bank is expressively with regards to the credit card, in which I earn points towards free movies.  I had no use for a checking account, nor do I ever recall opening such an account.  I pressed for more information and with a nervous look washed across his face, Rishi began feverishly tapping away at his keyboard, looking for an explanation.

According to Rishi, the account had been opened in 2011 and had exceeded to just over $193, at it's highest at one time.  I explained that there's no way that I would have parted with such an exorbitant amount in 2011, as I was unemployed and could not have parted with that amount, especially into an account that had laid dormant for the past four years.  He began typing again, further delving into the bowels of the banking records.

"It was opened with sixty dollars," he said, "In December of 2011.  Then another sixty dollars was deposited in June of 2012, then $153.12 in September."

I don't claim to be the most intelligent man in the world.  True, I consider myself smarter than most, especially those residing in Kentucky, but the math on what this frail little man just reported to me, fails to equal the amount that he claims the account maxed out at.  60 + 60 + 153.12 =$273.12, nearly a hundred dollars more than what he'd claimed.

"Is it possible that someone else tried to deposit money into their account and someone messed up and typed in the wrong account number?" I asked, to which I was sternly informed that human error is not possible.  "Bullshit," I thought to myself, "All humans ever do, if f*ck up."

I couldn't understand how such a blunder could occur.  Furthermore, I couldn't understand how if the account allegedly has so much money and hadn't been touched for four years, how could it be delinquent now and in arrears?  It was explained that ScotiaBank charges $3.95 per month as a service charge.  "Service for what?" I asked, adding, "If the account was never touched for four years, what are you guys servicing?"  Rishi explained that in exchange for the 'privilege' of having a checking account with ScotiaBank, a monthly service charge was withdrawn from the account.  This is when I began to question the authenticity of the television commercials I see daily, boasting how beneficial banking with ScotiaBank is.  It's a stinky load of bullshit, I tell ya.

I expressed that the account was never opened by me and that I'd like to close it.  Rishi assured me that this would not be a problem, then requested how I was going to pay for the delinquent amount still owing.  I explained that because I never opened the account, don't recall ever opening the account and that he's yet to prove that I did open this account, that ScotiaBank should eat the outstanding charge.  "It is only $20, after all.  ScotiaBank owns everything, nowadays, so they can afford to wave the charge."

Rishi was of a dark complexion, but this request made him turn grey.  Nervously, he excused himself from the kiosk to go chat with his supervisor, who agreed to wave the charge.  All I had to do was sign a document closing this mysterious account and all was done.

I don't harbour any ill-will towards ScotiaBank or Rishi.  No one will ever know, exactly, how this account had come into being, but someone out there, somewhere, must've deposited some money, then forgot about it, thus f*cking themselves out of some cash.  I know it wasn't me.  I have no use for ScotiaBank, other than to earn them points for free movies.  When they cancel that program, ScotiaBank and I will part ways, as well.  Adios, f*ckers!!

A Rose By Any Other Name

Many years ago, I strolled into a Manitoba restaurant with some co-workers, for breakfast and requested "Vi-co" from the waitress.  She laughed and balked, "Vodka.  For breakfast.  Yeah, right!"

Vi-Co was a term used exclusively in Saskatchewan in reference to the chocolate milk made by the Dairy Producers Company.  Everyone knew it was chocolate milk, but most still referred to it as Vi-Co.  I was never completely clear on what the name meant, entirely, but speculated that it simply referred to "Vitamins Contained".  Of course, I'm most likely mistaken about this.

In 1995, Dairy Producers was purchased by the Dairyland Corporation and the Vi-Co line was abolished.  Thankfully, the great taste has remained the same and I still drink it by the gallon, to this day.

Almost overnight, the terminology disappeared almost as quickly as the product and I doubt very many people still think about it as I do.  It's always bothered me some, although minuscule, because when Vi-Co disappeared, so did a little of Saskatchewan's identity and uniqueness.  Thankfully, we still have and frequently use the term "bunny-hug" to describe a hooded-sweatshirt.

Litmus Test

I've heard it said: Don't ever meet your heroes, they're never what they seem.  This is likely true, for the most part, otherwise there'd never be such a warning.  I've met a few people that I've looked up to, and (so far) they've been quite humble and respectable.  I'd never consider bacon, on the other hand, to be heroic, nor an idol to look upon fondly, although I do love that smokey taste when it's being gnarled between my teeth.  That being said, when the commercials for the new "Bacon-Wrapped Crust Pizza" from Little Caesar's began their shock and awe barrage on public television, I knew it was only a matter of time until I would visit the pizza chain.

I used to consume a shit-ton of fast food.  I'm lazy and tend to procrastinate a lot, so the thought of driving up to an establishment, paying for a tasty treat that required very little more than wiping my mouth and fingers with a moist towelette, was very appealing.  Unfortunately, several pounds later and a sad case of Type II diabetes, it's a rare treat, these days.  Unreasonable prices are also a major factor, though the spare tire around my middle section, should be suffice enough.

One contributor to the nastiness is KFC.  Generally, I would visit Kentucky Fried Chicken once a year, consume the chicken accompanied by their amazing gravy, then reap the uncomfortable sickness that would follow.  Like the consumption of alcohol, I would use this single experience like a Litmus Test.  A reminder as to why I don't submit myself to this kind of pain and discomfort more often within the calendar year.

I wouldn't categorize myself as an alcoholic, but the effects of sadness and depression that follow any drinking excursion isn't something I particularly look forward to and therefore reserve inebriation to once or twice a year.  It's pretty much all I can take.  I'm not a believer that a person can go for one or two drinks.  I do believe, on the other hand, that intoxicating oneself to complete annihilation, should be the goal.  For the most part, I find alcoholic beverages to taste tremendously bad, so why put yourself through that dissatisfaction, if there's no goal of inebriation to achieve?

I digress.  I'm getting completely off topic, to which I apologize.

Earlier this month, some coupons came in the mail and the varying pictures of KFC chicken became appealing to me.  I was about due for my yearly trek through intestinal hell, so I ventured down to the neighbourhood KFC and got a small four piece and brought it home.  However, the gut aches and feeling of vomiting that normally piggybacks the experience never came, although the meal was every bit as greasy and disgusting, as usual.  A couple weeks later, those coupons crossed my view and again I found myself placing an order for a four piece chicken box.  Once more, no nausea.  "What the f**k?!" I thought to myself.  A couple weeks later, this past Friday, I again went down and picked up a ten-piece bucket, this time and no nausea.  No feeling of dread or yearning to vomit.  "Strange!" I thought.

Days earlier, I'd broken down and visited Little Caesar's and bought the Bacon-Wrapped Crust Pizza that has been mercilessly prostituted on television for the past couple of months.  The images of the pizza in the commercial look so delectable and mouth-watering.  I could hardly contain myself when the clerk handed over my pizza.  I raced home and was horrified by the reality of the situation.  It was like one of those before and after pictures of Rihanna after a date with Chris Brown.  The beauty I was expecting to see, was just a beat up tramp.  My Bacon-Wrapped pizza was little more than a punching bag placed into a box.

It's appearance was a train wreck.  It smelled marginally better than it looked, but it's taste was equally, if not worse, than it's appearance.  What followed was all the experiences and memories I've ever had that was normally reserved for KFC.  It was a horrific experience.  I wound up lying on my couch in a ball, sweating heavily and fighting off the urge to puke.  I do not recommend that pizza to people.  Not unless you're bulimic.  You won't need to stick a finger down your throat, as odds are, the pizza will do that for you.

It's a sad sad day when I, of all people, have to admit that Kentucky Fried Chicken is better than pizza, but in this case I think it's gospel.  Little Caesar's has turned my off of pizza and I doubt I'll be eating pizza again for quite some time.  Thankfully, when I do, it'll be from a more reputable establishment and not some shit-hole vying for legitimacy in the forum with a cheap gimmick.

My coupons expire today, so I shan't be returning to the neighbourhood KFC, which my waistband and my colon are grateful.