A Ballistic Projectile Explodes

Every second Tuesday, I try to meet up with friends to go see a movie and tonight was no different.  I followed my usual route, which has become almost routine, always without incident, however, tonight I had me a small fright.

There was a good song on the radio, to which I had the volume turned up and I was singing along with the singer.  Images of what the words meant were scrolling across my imagination, but as vivid as my imagination tends to get, I never take my focus off the road in front of me, nor the streams of traffic around me.

Apparently, the woman in the car next to me, must've been deep in thought, too, only her mind and attention were miles away, as she signaled and turned into my lane, almost striking my front quarter-panel.  I laid on the horn quite heavily, and she slammed hard on the brakes, avoiding an inevitable collision.  At the same time, I noticed a small dog in the back seat, an innocent victim in all this, whose face struck her head rest quite firmly, before his little head disappeared behind the door.

I was upset at this woman's ignorance and failure to shoulder check, but I was more concerned for the little dog.  Happy-go-lucky, one moment, looking out the window at a strange and wondrous world, then hurt, maybe even injured or concussed, the next moment.  I have an affinity for animals, as most do, I'm sure, so my concern was on that dog.

For the remainder of my trek down this street before I had to turn off, took less than twenty seconds, but my thoughts of the pooch lasted long than that, stretching over the hours since, to this very moment.  The image of that dog's face being smooshed into the seat back, keeps replaying in my head, in slow motion.  The poor puppy.

I bet the stupid woman blamed me for her ignorance, which is fine, but worse yet, probably hasn't even acknowledged that her dog became a ballistic projectile, exploding behind her.  I hope he's okay.

No Apology Necessary

I was in need of a red marker, so after work I stopped by the Dollar Tree.  Having been there on several occasions before, I suspected they'd have what I need and they didn't disappoint.  As I scanned the aisle up and down, searching through the virtual sea of multi-coloured pens and markers, I failed to notice the small-statured tyke flanking me from the left.

He squeaked at the last moment, diverting my attention from the product hooks, down at him.  Sadly, it wasn't quick enough, as the little f*cker struck me hard in the shin with some kind of club, then scurried away around the corner.  The assault never hurt as much as the bewilderment of why a parent would, not only allow their child to run amok in a shopping venue, but also allow them to hit strangers?

"Seamus!" the mother called, with a thick Irish accent from the far end of the aisle, "Come back here at once, boy!"  I looked up at her, failing once more to hear the little bastard come up to me from behind, and strike me once more, this time on the back of my left leg, spinning me around to catch his eyeing me up for a third swing.

"Stop playing with that man and come here." his mother shouted again, never addressing the fact that her little tyrant had struck me twice and was vying for a hat trick.  "Really?"  I uttered in her direction, insinuating that we were not engaged in a game of folly, but in what could be construed as a violent exchange.

I heard a clank and looked back to see the little guy drop his golf club and reach out towards me like a hungry zombie craving fresh meat.  I flung my hands up and told him to get away from me.  I wasn't afraid of him, obviously, as I could crush him under my foot like the little pest that he was, but these days, you can't be too cautious when it comes to Stranger Danger.

Finally, grandma came and grabbed him by the arm, and drug him back to his mother's cart, leaving the small metal golf club behind.  I stared at them blankly, waiting for the apology that would never come.

If I were to be completely honest. the kid wasn't pasty and pale, nor was he named Seamus,  His family weren't of Irish decent, but actually appeared to be Middle Eastern.  The little boy was dirty and covered in filth and answered to Ahmed or something along those lines.  I don't wish to profile the family racially, but I can't help but wonder what the protocol is in that culture, where it's acceptable to assault a stranger in a store and no apologies are necessary?

The Inside Out Umbrella

Winter is encroaching upon us.  The temperatures dipping south of zero degrees Celsius, our mornings we're greeted with frosty windshields and sheer winds.  This morning was warmer than it has been, but the normally crisp mornings was replaced with a cold drizzle, mixed with periods of sleet and snow.

I was within the comforts of my warm vehicle, hot air blowing on the windshield and encompassing my face.  As I drove down the grey-coloured street, I glanced to my right, noticing a lone monstrous figure slowly cruising westward on the sidewalk.  Obviously too obese to make the trek on foot, they opted instead to do so using a motorized scooter.  In an attempt to reduce the soaking they would get from the weather pounding them in the face, they attempted to shield themselves with a solitary umbrella.  However, the winds, though not torrential, was still strong enough to turn their rain saving device, inside-out.

I know it's not polite or in good taste to laugh at those less fortunate than ourselves, but I couldn't help but let out a small chuckle.  Perhaps if the person was stricken with a valid handicap, the odds of my laughter would have been lessened.  I don't consider obesity to be an actual handicap and therefore, I have no feeling of guilt about laughing at the absurd sight.

Mustering Up A Shit Storm

"I shit myself!!"  Three words that no self-respecting individual would ever utter, unless, of course, it were true.  After all, why would anyone go to such lengths to lie about something so disgusting and heinous?  I guess I have no, or at the very least, very little self-respect, as I have told those three words to people and lied in doing so.

I have used this fib to get out of work, appointments and even plans with friends.  The believability in the lie is determined by how willing you are to provide graphic details.  Years ago, I was invited to a person's house to watch a movie.  There was going to be a whole bunch of people there that I didn't know and I didn't really feel like attending just to sit uncomfortably for a few hours in a cramped space.  Unfortunately, this was the kind of person that is difficult to say 'no' to.  They're always wanting a reason why.  Why?  Why?  Why?  So, as I was about to begrudgingly leave my house to go over, a light bulb shot off and I had the perfect plan.  I'd blow them off then simply tell them I had shit myself.  "They'll believe that, I'm sure," I thought to myself.

The next day I received a phone call and it was my friend on the other end.  Without even saying hello, they asked where I was and why I didn't bother coming over the night before.  "I had an accident." I said.  Before I was able to elaborate, they asked if I was okay and what had happened, speculating that someone had hit my vehicle.

"I shit myself."  I said.  There was an elongated pause, followed by a quiet, "What?"

I explained that I had been on my way to their house and while waiting at a red light, I had leaned to one side to squeak out a fart and the next thing I knew, I had nearly blown the back of my pants out with the nastiest wet fart in the history of farts.  There was another long pause, followed by a dishevelled "What?"  I took this as my cue to elaborate, stating that I had returned home to inspect Ground Zero and it wasn't a pleasant sight.

"You could've cleaned up and come over anyway." They said, not allowing something as small as a wet fart ruin the evening's festivities.  "No, I couldn't," I said, "it was really really bad."  I went on to explain how the shit had encompassed nearly all the real estate in and around my ass, some of which even mysteriously migrating around to the front.  "No." I retorted, "It was a complete obliteration.  I wound up having to throw my pants and underwear away.  Sucks, because they were a new pair of pants.  I don't think home insurance would cover a sewage backup that came out of my ass."

They totally bought the story, because like I said, no one with self-respect would ever lie about such a dramatic event, and being that the story was told over the phone, no actual evidence was ever necessary to provide.

Now I'm not saying that it hasn't ever happened.  I think everyone, at one time or another, has sharted in their pants.  Maybe nothing like the Shitanic that I just dramatized, but a little hint here or there.  This one time, I'd gotten struck with some kind of virus and diarrhea was an unfortunate factor to be dealt with.  I was running to the bathroom, literally, every seven to ten minutes.  I didn't dare gamble and break wind, for fear it was something much more evil.  I had to run to a medi-clinic to see what was afoot and get a doctor's not for work.  However, in doing so, I had to time my travels just precise enough that I wouldn't be stuck in traffic and that a washroom would be readily available.

This virus was nasty.  It got to the point where there was no more poop coming out.  It was just water... Or poop juice.  Like if someone were to squeeze a log of shit, the moisture that would run out, a veritable scorching shit juice from concentrate, that was setting my rectal area ablaze.  Every visit to the cool porcelain toilet, was met with fire shooting out my ass.  Whenever I see a flame thrower being used in an old World War Two movie, I'm viciously reminded of this period of time.

Treatment worked, but every time I felt gaseous in the days that followed, it was like Russian Roulette.  With every squeeze of the "trigger", I'd wince just in case there was an explosion.

This second account is very much true.  However, if you're like me and have very little self-respect and wish to get out of work this weekend, don't hesitate to use the story.  We've all been there and most people wouldn't lie about something so disgusting and heinous..., but I would.

Going Forth, Unsaliently

Every vehicle for (at least) the last fifty or sixty years, has possessed the little lever on the left hand side of the steering column.  It's an inconspicuous little lever that is within reach of our fingers, requiring very little movement, if any, from control of the steering wheel in our motor vehicle.  Some heavier equipment, has the same small device, only it's on the right hand side of the steering column.  It takes a little adjustment, at first, to get used to it, but eventually, it becomes second nature.

There's no question what this device does, as everyone who operates a motor vehicle, should be well aware of what it's function is.  Emphasis on should.  However, as much as people should be familiar with it, there's a growing faction who either doesn't have a f*cking clue what the lever does, don't f*cking care what the lever does, or is just too f*cking lazy to use the lever as it's supposed to be used.  The lever, of course, is the turn signal.

Clicking of the turn signal, lights indicator lights located on the front and rear of your motor vehicle.  The lights in front are amber in colour.  The lights in rear are either amber, as well, or red.  Whatever the case, the signals are on a flash relay, so as to better draw the attention of drivers around you.  This practice is to (hopefully) make your travels throughout traffic, easier and safer.

However, I've been witnessing more and more, on a daily basis, the lack of care or attention to those of us who properly use the signal light.  I especially notice it, everyday, as I'm in control of a very big rig.  A large vehicle that requires a lot of room in order to transfer from one lane into another or around corners.  I make sure to signal well in advance, clearing all my mirrors and ensuring I have the attention of drivers around me, before committing to any lane changes or turns.  This is very necessary, as if I crash into a small car, I'm almost guaranteed to crush them like an aluminum can under a heavy boot.  In the beginning, people were quite gracious, allowing me into lanes without much strife, but as of late, all consideration has been flung out the window like yesterday's bath water.  Nowadays, I'm finding more and more that people are misconstruing what the signals actually mean.

In the beginning, if I needed to move from the far right lane into the left turning lane, I could do so by signalling.  People would take note of the large saucer-like amber light flashing in their faces and slow down enough, allowing me to pass over in front of them.  Lately, it seems as though people take that same flashing amber light as an indication that they should speed up, not allowing me over to where I need to be.  This is equally true when I'm behind the wheel of my regular vehicle, as well.  Gotta make a right turn onto my street?  Nope!  Some dumb motherf*cker is already gleaming the sidewalk to get around me.  Or if I am lucky enough to make the corner onto my street, I'm required to make a sudden left signal, as my house is the second dwelling on the left hand side.  Believe it or not, on more than one occasion, when I make that quick left turn signal, people riding my rear bumper, make a sudden and dangerously rash swerve to the left, narrowly missing me and any traffic who may be approaching the intersection.

A little over a month ago, I approached my house from the south.  I was required to back into the driveway to load something into the box of my truck.  I slowed in front of my driveway.  Stopped.  Switched on the signal, indicating that I wished to move to my right.  I put the truck in reverse, causing my back up lights to come on, and proceeded to reverse.  As the front of my truck swung slightly out into the street, steering backward into my driveway, an impatient little minx, swerved around me, and clipped the front corner of my truck.  The inconsideration that someone was incapable of recognizing ALL of the proper indications of my intentions, drove me absolutely insane with anger.  Turns out she was f*cking hot, so I quickly calmed down, thinking quietly to myself how we, as old codgers, would laugh and tell our grandchildren how grandma and grandpa met.  I've never seen her, again.

Hot or not, people are growing more and more f*cking stupid when it comes to common practices like basic motor vehicle operations.  I'd say that people need to be retrained on proper motor vehicle operation, but then we'll hear from all the nutcases saying the government is trying to control us like they are with the gun control issue.

The Shartening

I was turning left onto 11th Street, the main artery that directs traffic from the outskirts of the city, back into the suburb known as Montgomery Place.  I was seated high atop a bus, a post which affords me the ability to see further than the common driver who is perched behind the wheel of their sub-compact or SUV.  As a bus driver, we are taught to look everywhere and see everything.  Alone, I have seven mirrors for my eyes to dart back and forth to, spending no more that a few fleeting seconds, ensuring that the perimeter of the bus is clear, and that's not mentioning the great windshield before me that allows me to see clear into the far horizon.

The coast-was-clear, so to speak when I proceeded into the intersection, the small patch of real estate that separates the southbound traffic from the north.  There was no traffic headed north, to I had ample time to clear my big rig without incident.  When I got about three quarters of the way through the intersection, is when I glanced down and saw him.

Before I began my trek across the road, I ensured that it was safe to do so.  The traffic around me was a white Toyota passing me in the far right hand lane, and a slow moving train of traffic headed up by a bright red Pontiac, approaching from 11th Street, the street I intended to turn onto.  There is a giant stop sign on the corner, so large that even Stevie Wonder himself, could see it.  Traffic has to stop, so this shouldn't be a factor for me.  However, as large as the stop sign is, this fellow in the red Pontiac, wasn't able to see it, as his face was buried in his cell phone.  I can only assume that what he was reading was an important text.  After all, nobody ever texts and drives, unless it's an emergency... I say sarcastically, tongue-in-cheek.

At the last moment, Charlie, looked up at the big yellow bus that was mere inches away from his front bumper.  I don't know if that was his name or not.  For driving in the manner he was, I'd just as quickly assume his name was Dumb-Fuck.  He looked up at the bus, jamming on his brakes, last second.  His gaze swung up to meet mine.  His eyes as wide open as they ever could be.  They looked like two eggs served sunny side up.  That's when I saw it.  That fleeting moment that is very rarely witnessed with the naked eye.  The minuscule second when, as an outsider, you know exactly what's happening on the inside of another.  The moment that Charlie, realized his impending demise, and shit his pants.  The literal "holy shit moment".  As an outsider, this moment is every bit as magical as witnessing a beautiful sunset off the beach of a tropical island or hearing the first cry of a newborn baby.  This is how magical this moment was for me.

We both escaped the scenario with out a scratch, although I suspect Charlie will have to throw away his obliterated underwear.  No amount of detergent is going to clean away that horrendous mess.  He, likely got nothing out of the experience, except the stench of stinky shit the rest of his trek homeward, but as for me...  The whole event took less than one or two seconds, but for me, the experience gave me five paragraphs of what I can only assume, is some of my best writing to date. 

The Hard Way

I love simplicity.  Why over complicate things, when just as much can be accomplished simply by pointing and clicking?  Lock in a cable, press a key and viola!  Shit just prints out.  No haggling or begging for shit to work.  It just does and I love it when it happens.

Sadly, things aren't as cut and dry as this.  I believe people call it "progress".  However, I've found that with every improvement, a level of imperfections and defects are sure to follow.  Take for instance, my cell phone.  I did a shit-ton of research on cell phones before I committed to the one I have and in the beginning, it was the proverbial cat's meow.  That's until I got an alert from the manufactured that update software was available, strongly urging me to update.  I've experienced four "improvement" updates since that day and with every upgrade, the phone f*cks up more and more.  Now I can barely do anything with the phone, without alerts coming up that the programming isn't working properly.

A few years ago, I made the unfortunate decision to purchase an Apple MacBook Pro.  Everyone was chiming in my ear that Apple was the way to go.  The way of the future.  That it was SO simple to use, that an idiot could use it without a problem.  Apparently, I scaled below idiocy as I had nothing but problems in working the computer.  Then again, the computer did foul up a total of four times, which equated in three new hard drives along the way before the store from whom I purchased it, finally consented to returning my money.  The PC I replaced it with, has worked like a charm ever since.  It's been about four years now.  I did have the hard drive replaced once, I'll admit, but that was due to a virus that some dumb motherf*cker sent me under the guise of Microsoft.  Not my fault.

A part of the deal when I bought the Apple, was a $99 HP printer and a Bose surround sound that I got for around $200.  When I returned the Apple, I kinda forgot to return the printer and the surround sound, but still got the full credit for monies spent, so in a sense, the surround sound and printer became free.

The printer worked like a charm, and I regret ever packing it up and replacing it with a Kodak printer.  I was interested in trying to do photography and figured the Kodak would do a better job.  It didn't.  So it sat for a couple years, as did the HP.  Recently, the Kodak stopped working properly.  Frustrated, I packed up the Kodak and re-hooked up the HP.  Like seeing an old girlfriend, the printer seemed to gleam in the light of the office.  I looked forward to reliving some of the old times when I would print off literary pieces that I'd write, like the one I'm tapping out, right now.

Tonight, I ended my procrastination of writing out some documents I need for work.  The office has been hounding me to get my shit in and I don't dare show my face there again, until I have these important documents in hand.  I sat down immediately after I returned home and typed up the first document.  It looks pretty god damned good, considering I don't know what the f*ck I'm doing.

I set up the printer.  Everything checked out.  All the right lights were blinking and then...  NOTHING!  Not one f*cking page.  I don't know anything about this computer shit, but I like simplicity.  Every other time, I would open up the bay where the ink cartridges were, take them out and tap them on the desk.  This usually resulted in a printed page, but not this time.  "They were new cartridges, so I don't understand why it wouldn't work." I thought to myself, actually scratching my head in the process.  I shrugged my shoulders and ran off to the nearby computer shop, returning twenty minutes later with a new cartridge in hand.  I unwrapped it and placed it in the now vacant slot.

The printer hummed and gaffed for a moment then printed out a pristine test page.  I was all set.  I clicked 'print' and.....  NOTHING!!  Nada.  Zilch.  Not a single f*cking groan or growl.  Just a click of the ink tray resetting.  I pressed 'print' again and nothing.  I went through the process six more times and STILL nothing!!

The valuable lesson I learned tonight was: If you're going to angrily throw a printer, do it outside because the glass is hard as f*ck to pick out of the carpet.  I must have about twenty-three minuscule shards of glass stuck in my hands and fingers and as tiny as they are, they all hurt like they're butcher knives.  My hands were stained crimson red as I picked up every last morsel of glass, before running my vacuum over the rug.  I'm not proud of losing my temper.  In fact, it's been a long long... long time since I've lost my temper to this magnitude.

I also learned, tonight, when I returned to the computer store, this time to purchase a new printer, that the ink, if left for a lengthy period of time, sometimes with thicken and gum up the printer head, which results in the need to replace the printer.  That would've been a handy tidbit to know before blowing $26 on a f*cking ink cartridge.

Long story short (I know.  Too late!)  I replaced my shitty (now) broken HP printer with a Samsung laser printer.  The cartridges will cost a f*ck of a lot more, but the fella there explained that because it's powder, it can sit for a long period of time and STILL (f*cking) work.  *He didn't use the F-word, but I would've respected him if he had.

I own a Samsung TV.  A Samsung 3D Bluray player and a Samsung refrigerator.  Why not add a Samsung laser printer into the mix.  After the phone fiasco, I'm determined to replace it with a Samsung, as well.  I'm keeping the shit simple.

(The printer was regular $600, but it had a sale tag on it for $199.99.  At the register, I learned that the sale was no longer in affect, but they still gave it to me for the $200.  After a shitty loser of a day, it's nice to have a WIN!!)

My Little Woodpecker

How nice it would be to have a little woodpecker.  A little woodpecker perched atop my shoulder, like a parrot does a pirate.  A little woodpecker to accompany me on my travels, domestic and abroad.  A little woodpecker to cheep in my ear when it's hungry or starved for affection.  A little woodpecker to hover and peck at the hard-to-reach itches on my back that can't be addressed by conventional methods.  It would surely be nice to have a little woodpecker.