The Great Debate

The subject of men standing versus sitting while urinating seems to be a subject that comes up every few years.  Studies and polls sent out to the masses to determine whether men prefer to stand to pee or to sit.  Personally, I cannot believe that science is still debating this subject after, what I can only assume, are ions. What is to become of it?

I am only reminded of the subject as it was discussed, albeit briefly, on the radio the other day.  One half of the on-air duo, who is male, seemed almost embarrassed that he sat down to pee.  Sensing his uneasiness, I texted in to the show that I was not ashamed to admit that I also sit to urinate.  It's something that I've done for decades and although memory of my childhood is foggy, I believe I sat to pee as a kid, too.  That is, until another chap teased me for doing so.

On the radio, they cited the results of one of science's latest studies, which revealed that in America only 23% of men sit to pee, while 31% prefer to stand.  Comparatively, in Canada, 35% choose to be seated while just 21% remain standing.  While looking up these statistics, I was surprised that the statistics for Europe are even higher.  Germany leads the world in sitzpinklers at a whopping 62%, with Sweden coming in at a distant 50% and Denmark coming in third with 44%.  It's mind blowing when you're not in the least expecting those kind of numbers.

Reasons for choosing to sit over standing varies, too, and they aren't related to the same reasons as why I choose to be seated personally.  I'll explain that in a moment.  Reasons most men do it, in Europe anyway, I was surprised to discover that it was medical.  Some choose to be seated due to urinary infections and other medical conditions.  I would surmise that the choice to stand is purely out of convenience.  After all, it is much easier to duck behind a fence, whip it out real quick and piss in the corner.  Hell, when I was mowing grass in the median strips on Circle Drive, I didn't have the convenience of hiding behind a bush or anything.  When desperate enough, I had a method in which I'd open the door of my little tractor and pretend to be leaning in and searching for something when in reality, upon closer inspection, one could see a stream of urine pouring down on the ground.  You don't want to know what I did if I had to poop. 😂

It was that discussion on the radio that sparked a long lost memory of my childhood and perhaps the catalyst to why I began choosing to sit rather than stand.  As I recall, I was visiting my aunt who had a friend over.  The bathroom was just off the kitchen in the small two bedroom apartment.  I went in to pee, standing as young boys do, and upon the stream splashing down, my aunt's friend thought it would be funny to call into the bathroom.  "We can hear you!" she called with a chuckle in her voice.  The experience traumatized me and I was overwhelmed with shame and embarrassment.  I never stood again, after that.  Not if I was indoors, anyway.  The anxiety from that day, propelled me into a state of constant Shy Bladder, which meant I was unable to go to the bathroom in a public setting if their were other people around.  No matter how bad I had to go, if there were eyes about, I was unable to go.  It remained that way until just a year or so, ago.

As an adult, I had many different jobs, some of which required me to clean bathrooms.  Men's rooms, as you can imagine can be quite disgusting.  It's like travelers don't care and willfully piss all over the place.  What was most gross, though, was the toilets.  Specifically, the outside of the bowl, more so than the interior.  The piss can actually cake on the porcelain.  And ladies, if you go to your man's apartment and take a close look at his toilet, chances are, there's going to be dried piss caked on the sides of the bowl.  It comes from the splashing water as the piss hits the surface.  It was this discovery that made it abundantly clear that when I was going to live on my own, sans roommates and family, that I would continue to remain seated when urinating.

Seems that my choice to avoid standing is a major reason to do so in Germany as a landlord, back in 2015, sued a tenant for €1,900 (£1400; $2,200), the cost to repair a marble floor that had been destroyed with urine.  The case was lost, the Duesseldorf judge ruling that men are allowed to urinate from a standing position, adding that standing is still common practice.  The case sparked a national debate, with another judge, Honourable Stefan Hank, agreeing with experts that the uric acid found in urine did do the majority of the damage to the floor, but that occasional splash back is expected.  They never ruled as to why the tenant failed to clean up after himself, though.  I'm empathetic to the landlord because, yes, urine can be quite harmful and clearly the fact that the tenant couldn't be bothered to grab some toilet tissue to wipe up, is unclear.  I've never traveled to Europe, but in this report it's revealed that public washrooms all over Germany, have signs prohibiting men from standing to pee, for just this reason.

 

In my research to write this blog, I noted that Germany was not the only country to post these signs, but I saw examples from Denmark, Sweden and even Japan, where standing is discouraged.  Where I initially thought shame would be brought upon anyone, like myself, who openly admitted to sitting down to take a piss, I'm not feeling so singled out anymore.  Apparently more men, the world over, are choosing the seated method.  Plus, it's more handy to look at your phone from this position, rather than risking dropping your device into a piss filled toilet or urinal.

In the United States, 23% of men sit, 31% stand.  In Canada, 35% choose to be seated, while 21% remain standing.  So that leaves 46% in the US and 44% in Canada left undecided?  The math does not add up.  What do the other percentage of people do?  Get creative?

It's a mystery for the ages, I guess.  

Sub Par

 

I have been a fan of Subway restaurants since they first appeared here, in Saskatoon.  I loved the taste of the freshly baked bread versus the packaged buns of their competitors.  Fresh veggies and cold cut meats, versus the packaged products of the other guys. And the friendly service I always got, unlike the other sub shops where the employees acted like they didn't want to be there.  Plus, Subway had another practice that toppled the competition -- the V-cut.

Where every other sub shop that I ever visited, did the traditional hinge cut, where as Subway perfected the cut by introducing a "U-gouge" down the middle of the warm bun, fresh from the oven. Subway proved by cutting their buns in this fashion kept all the fresh toppings inside the sandwich, rather than spilling all over the patron's shirt and all over the table.  This proved especially handy with Meatball subs.  I can remember several occasions of eating at the Mr. Sub with my dad and both of us cursing as the meatballs, heavily doused with tomato sauce, would shoot out the side of the hinge-cut sandwich and deposit themselves in our laps, leaving a saucy trail down our shirts.  In those days, it was not unusual to see customers leaving the restaurant with parts of their meal stained on their apparel. Subway's unique V-cut eliminated that probability.

The history of Subway began in 1965, when a seventeen year old Fred DeLuca borrowed a thousand dollars from his pal, Peter Buck, to open the first restaurant, simply called Pete's Super Submarines, in Bridgeport, Connecticut.  Two years later, the duo would change the name to Subway.  Then in 1974, the restaurant began franchising, seeing a second location open in Wallingford, Connecticut.  Soon the restaurant, rising in popularity, would spread across the continental USA, the first Subway restaurant opening on the west coast, appeared in Fresno, California in 1978.  After this it wouldn't take long for Subway's appeal to spread across the world, having approximately 41,600 restaurants, worldwide, by 2021.  Primarily located in continental North America, Subway has roughly 21,800 restaurants in the US, alone, with an additional 2881 in Canada and 758 in Mexico. The rest are peppered across the globe, like parmesan cheese on your favourite sandwich. Fred DeLuca would serve as the company CEO until 2015 when he lost his battle to Leukemia which he'd been battling for the previous two years. Several CEO's have succeeded Fred DeLuca since his passing, including his sister, Suzanne Greco.

It's my opinion that Subway began to falter in the absence of it's founder, Pete DeLuca.  Despite its continued success climbing in numbers, the restaurant seems to have altered the restaurateur's original vision.  It seems like it was around this time when the traditional V-cut was abandoned, replacing it with the problematic hinge-cut.  When asked, I was originally told that people "complained" about the V-cut, but later sources have made claims that it was a safety concern.  The latter excuse makes no sense as the sandwich artists still use a sharp knife to slice through the buns.  If anything, the hinge-cut would be more detrimental as one cuts the bun while holding it with their opposite hand.

Reports lay claim that if you wish your sandwich to be cut the old way, Subway staff are more than happy to oblige.  However, in all the Subway restaurants that I've been in, in Canada, the staff look at you like you've just spoken an alien language, having no clue as to what you're referring to.  There is only one Subway, that I continue to patronize, who knows how to cut the original V-cut.  I went so far as to sing their praises on Twitter, but was contacted by Subway Canada, inquiring as to which location this was, adding that the store was in direct violation of Subway's practices.  I never snitched, because I don't want to lose my preferred method of eating my delicious Subway sandwiches.

Subway restaurants have altered their practices and added options to their menus and subtracted other popular sandwiches and in recent years, as popular as the restaurant chain is, attempted some maneuvers that even an untrained eye would recognize as somewhat desperate.  Granted they had that setback when Jared Fogle, the patron who alleged that he had lost over 200lbs by eating healthy sandwiches from Subway in his native Indiana, who was later found to be in possession of child pornography and having sexual misconduct with a minor.  Fogle was immediately erased from Subway's lexicon and subsequently sentenced to 15 years in prison as a result.  On a side note, if you go to YouTube, you can look up comedian Tom Segura's tale of how he was hired and had actually shot some commercials that would never air, where he portrayed Fogle's fat brother, Jerome, who ate all the unhealthy sandwiches and remained fat.  I heard him tell this story on Conan O'Brien and it was f**king hysterical. 

Subway calls their employees, Sandwich Artists, but all the artistry is lost.  The same great taste is their, although in recent times, I've heard people relentlessly criticizing the taste of the bread, claiming they add sugar or something like that.  I don't know, the food tastes the same today as it ever did, as far as I'm concerned.  People just don't seem happy unless they have something to complain about.  Hell, this whole blog complains about how the hinge-cut as much as it praises the restaurant chain on it's uniqueness.

Someday, the proprietor of the Subway that I frequent, will sell her franchise and then the art of the V-cut will truly be dead and that saddens me greatly.  However, there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  YouTube being the phenomenal site that it is, has people demonstrating how to make the V-cut at home.  At some point, in the not too distant future, I will set aside the kitten videos and game playthroughs and settle in to learn the artistry of the infamous V-cut. Then I can start making my own Meatball subs at home, carefully avoiding the peril of dumping saucy meatballs down my shirt and into my lap.  Tomato sauce is difficult to remove from the sofa upholstery.

Them's The Breaks!!

 

I got f**ked by National Pizza Day.  Inadvertently f**ked, that is.  I'm sure the pizza place where I had acquired the pizza from, did not dispatch said pies with the intention of causing bodily damage.  This is not a plausible business plan.

Wednesday, February 9th, 2022, was National Pizza Day.  Or so I learned from the trusty interwebs.  If it is written there, then it must be true, am I right?  I hadn't had pizza for quite some time, so I thought it was in the budget that I could treat myself to some pizza.  I rang up my usual haunt and ordered three pizza's. (Given the outrageous prices for pizza these days, this establishment seems the best bang for my buck at $33 for three pizzas.)  I ordered a Meatball, a number 18 (beef, bacon, & sausage) which is my go to, always.  It's like a meat lovers, but without the ham.  I'm allergic to ham.  Then I rounded out the triad with a Chicken Teriyaki pizza, which is the only acceptable pizza to have pineapple on.

I quickly dispatched the Meatball, followed by the Number 18, into my belly.  I had been dreaming almost the entire day about having pizza for supper, so I avoided unnecessary snacks or mid-day lunch, just to make room for pizza that night.

I realize that by admitting that I devoured two pizzas all by my lonesome seems excessive, but they were small 10" pizzas, most of which are taken up by crust.  I'm not making excuses for my gluttony, as I don't need explain myself to anyone, except maybe my doctor, and I know she does not read my stuff.

The third pizza, the Chicken Teriyaki, I left for another day.  I placed it in the refrigerator until I could give it my full attention later, which turned out to be yesterday.  Friday.

I placed the pizza onto a plate, blasted it a couple times in the microwave to heat it up to optimum temperature.  Cold pizza is f**king disgusting, especially if it's been refrigerated.  I sat down in front of the TV and watched some Bitchin' Rides, while I enjoyed my pizza, now topped with more Teriyaki sauce.  (I buy the Golden Dragon stuff.  It really is the best.)  The meaty part tasted great, as I placed the crusts idly by until I could address them afterward.

The way I like to eat pizza, generally, is eat the center part first, then the crusts after, like a snack.  This is what I did with the first two pizzas from Wednesday night.  No issues, but I hadn't accounted for the crusts to get extra tough in the days since it was made.  Now the crusts were hard.  Really f**king hard.  Harder than I initially thought, actually.

Usually, the crusts firm up a little as they cool off, but they remain somewhat leathery, if that makes sense.  Thick, but manageable to bite portions off, but this was blatantly not the case with the crusts from the Chicken Teriyaki.  I guess the added 48 hours in the fridge caused it to thicken up like f**king concrete.  I wrestled my way through a couple of them, when all of a sudden, I heard a crunch.  Not the kind of crunch that sounds like a pizza crust being crushed between my molars, but a more distinguishable "oh f**k" kind of crunch.  I quickly vacated my mouth-hole to discover that I'd broken one of my lower teeth.  This little f**ker that I had my dentist work on last August, was now sitting in the palm of my hand.

I've always had weak teeth.  Ever since I was knee high to a squirrel, I've had bad teeth.  The dentists would give me shit, passing on the news to my parents.  I remember many a "discussion" with an extremely inebriated father, who would pull my chair in close to his and he'd scream at me to brush my teeth, to avoid having a nasty set like he had.  However, despite all my efforts to follow the guidelines set upon me by the National Dentistry whatever, my teeth have always had cavities, chips, breaks or worse.  Hell!!  When I broke my back, I also managed to break five and a half teeth in the process.  That extra half was because one was already broken, ha ha.

What sucks is, I had insurance at the time, when I broke those teeth along with three vertebrae.  I don't have insurance, now, though.  Every dentist visit is paid for straight outta pocket.  Canada rocks, as far as health care, goes, but dentistry sucks balls.

So far, I'm not feeling any pain.  Chances are, the one that broke on me, had previously had a root canal, I suspect.  Memory losses over the years, hinders me from actually recalling what has been done to what.

Tomorrow is the Super Bowl.  I had planned on making some ribs for the occasion, but to say the least, I'm a little gun shy.  I doubt anything else will be tumbling out of my mouth, but ya never know.  I'm sure if something does, I'll be writing about that too.

It's No Secret

 

It's not a secret that I hide from anyone.  It's just a matter of fact.  A part of the lifestyle I choose to live, these days.  Years ago, before it was formally legalized, I would partake in the consumption of marijuana on a extremely part time basis.  If a friend had some, we'd share a joint.  Later on, I found a supplier and decided to do my own experimentation.

I suffer from seasonal depression.  It's something I've battled for more years than I can count.  Not something that my family or closest peers were ever aware of.  I'm not an idiot, doing my due diligence before moving forward and learning that cannabis can reduce or even eliminate depression.  So that first winter, I smoked whenever I was feeling down and it perked me right up.  Sadly, the more I learned about cannabis, the more I realized that my "supplier" knew nothing.  When I made my last purchase from him, I asked if it was a Sativa or an Indica strain and he blankly looked at me and told me he didn't know what either of those words meant. 

Sativa is the strain that perks you up and Indica is the strain that mellows you the f**k out.  Easiest way to remember is what I learned from the comedian, Doug Benson, who quoted "Indica is like 'in-da-couch'."

In the end, I'm not sure what it was that I received from the "supplier", but rest assured, the depression was suppressed.  So imagine my joy when marijuana was legalized in Canada.  The ease of walking into a legitimate business and conducting myself in an open manner.  Plus, now dealing with people who not only know the good and bad effects of the merchandise they're selling.  Nowadays, I'm able to customize the effects that I hope to achieve upon consumption.  Back in the old days, it was like spinning the tumbler on a six-shooter in a game of Russian Roulette.  Spark up and hope for the best.  One night, as I recall, I was quite gleeful, as I cooked up about 2lbs of bacon and consumed it all.  Another time, I got horribly sick, almost like I'd had an allergic reaction.  I couldn't function for about a week. 

These days, I choose to go the route of vaping the cannabis.  It's easier and more compact.  I don't have to empty the chamber and clean my unit every time I wish to smoke dried product as I do with my one device, but simply screw the vape cartridge into the battery I purchased and I'm off to the races.

Gone are the munchies, although I do keep a supply of snacks on hand that require little, if any, effort to prepare, so there's no danger of burning down my house.  No more anxiety or depression.  All that is left is relaxation, happy times and a flurry of ideas and expressions.  The stuff that makes me laugh like an idiot, I often will share to Facebook and Twitter.  Share my idiocy with the world, hoping that no one will steal any of it.

Sadly, there is also a downside...  It's nothing dangerous, mind you, but simply inconvenient.  Prime example is last night.  I was inspired to write a genius blog.  I had the introduction written in my head.  I had many musings and references to make and even a title, which is usually the most difficult factor to come up with, aside from subject matter.  I'd consumed just enough cannabis to know, however, that I was unable to write anything last night, for fear it'd come out like gibberish.  Even now, I question how legitimate this blog sounds, and I'm 100% clean and sober and the moment.

I'm not afraid to admit to smoking dope.  It's not illegal.  Hell, cannabis, despite all the idiot warning labels that the government imposes onto packaging, marijuana is not dangerous to your health.  Cannabis is a necessary tool that I use to escape my demons and depression.  That is all.  Well....  It IS fun, too.  I won't lie about that.

Black Ice - What Lies Beneath

In the past, I've sometimes found writing this blog to be therapeutic and a viable way to work through whatever issues that may have been plaguing my thoughts at that particular time...
I hope this helps me, today....

Without revealing my chronological age, I can verify that I've been driving for quite some time.  Living in Canada, you learn to drive a vehicle in several different ways to successfully combat the several different road conditions you may encounter in any given season.  Springtime tends to bring a lot of rain, causing roads to be slick and wet during the day, only to turn icy at night when the mercury drops below zero ℃.  Summer isn't too bad, I've found, but as soon as the leaves turn colour and the snow begins to fly, that's when we, driver's need to be more weary.

Black ice is our worst enemy.  It's the thin layer of ice that blankets the road, which is nearly impossible to see with the naked eye, unless you're lucky enough to catch a faint glimmer of it.  A faint reflection of ice crystals catching the light at just the right angle, bouncing back to your pupil.  Most, sadly, ignore this and continue to drive just as they had been all summer long.  I've always credited myself as a better driver than these kinds of people.  I've always considered myself a better driver than most people, even on my worst day.  Last week, I had the absolute worst day of my driving career.

I'm not saying that I've never had an accident.  I've had a few misfortunes in my life.  I once lost control and crashed a small Chevrolet Chevette into a row of parked cars.  That was a terrible accident and I was severely injured at the time.  Most people, upon seeing the damage done to the car, questioned how I wasn't hurt more seriously.  It was a nasty one, I will admit, but afterward, I had no qualms about sitting behind the wheel.

This accident that I had on Thursday night/Friday morning, was unlike anything I've ever experienced.  I can say, beyond a reasonable doubt, that I'm afraid to drive.  I ventured out Sunday, but I was frightened by the aggressive drivers around me.  The big 4x4 trucks speeding up behind me.  I thought for sure, one of them were going to corral me into the ditch.  Last night I ventured out to buy some milk, which took me about four hours to get up the courage, as it'd been raining all day long.  The temperature was above zero℃, so there wasn't any icing issues, but it has snowed overnight and there are some errands that I sloughed off yesterday, that need to be done today.  As I look out the window, I can visibly see the ice and snow compiled on the city streets.  I don't know if I can go out in that...  Worse yet, I have to work tonight, which means venturing out in the cold winter night and driving that same route, passing that same corner where I lost complete control last week and slammed into the side of that silver GMC.

It took me about four hours to gain the courage to drive to the corner store for milk, yesterday.  I dread having to go to work, tonight...

I see on television, people who suffer severe anxiety following a terrible accident, and I've always mocked them.  Now I'm feeling about the same way.  I was feeling worthless before this occurred.  I feel even worse, now. 😣

I never found this to be therapeutic, this time 'round.
In fact, I feel a little worse off, now...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trouser Snake

At first mention of the words, trouser snake, one's imagination goes to a male's genitalia, which in this instance you'd be mistaken.  To what I refer to in this blog, today, is going to be much much worse and far more offensive.  So be warned before reading on, and if you indeed choose to continue reading, you've been forewarned and cannot blame anyone but yourself.  So that being said, I will continue my tawdry tale.

Last weekend was Thanksgiving for Canada.  I don't know why our Thanksgiving Day is more than a month prior to that of the U.S.  Canada probably wanted a long weekend in October, is what many of us have speculated.  I know in the last few years, there was a holiday proposed for February, although I don't think it's recognized in all the provinces.  (I'm talking about YOU, Quebec.  You suck, Quebec!)

So after stuffing myself full at my mother's house, she was gracious enough to send me home with a mountainous amount of left overs.  I don't know how much, per se, but upon warming it up the other night, I'd speculate that it was, at least, a pound in weight.  The left overs contained pretty much everything that had been available at the dinner table, except for the beets, which my mother announced she wouldn't include out of fear it would turn everything purple in colour.

So Thursday night was the night I'd decided to heat up and devour this huge meal.  This was not the easiest of tasks, by any measure, but like a trooper, I forced it all down as I watched wrestling (TNA Impact Wrestling) on Spike TV.  Later that night, I suspect due to the tryptophan in my system, I slept one of the most restful nights in a long long time.  I hadn't been sleeping very well in the nights preceding, so the slumber was welcome.

The next day, work went on as usual.  No issues.  No nothing, other than the usual setbacks and shit.  After work I needed to speed across town to sign some documents, then afterwards, I headed to the Home Depot, in search of a specific tool that I want to purchase for my brother-in-law for Christmas.  While looking around, I suddenly found myself needing to visit the washroom.  I don't normally like to use public facilities, as they are usually pretty f*cking gross, but this being a newer Home Depot location and in a decent part of town, I didn't think the washroom would be in too terrible of disarray, and quickly hobbled in it's direction.  Plus, judging from the impending doom, whether or not the bathroom was a disaster, I had one locked in the chamber and the safety switch was slipping.

Sadly, someone was in the handicapped stall, the spot I usually like to occupy as it has lots of leg room.  I don't necessarily need to stretch out as I "drop the kids off at the pool", but it's like a life jacket on a boat.  It's nice to have, just in case.  So I squeezed myself into the other available stall and unleashed the fury.

Actually it wasn't so furious, thank god!  Nothing is worse than having an atrocious bowel movement and having to clean up the mess with that sandpaper they call toilet paper.  Am I right, people?  It's like wiping with a cheese grater.  It might do the trick, but it doesn't feel good at all, nor are you left in a very happy place afterward.  But thankfully, this was not one of those horrific occasions.  Nope!  This one slipped out quite nicely.  Like a basketball through a hoop with nothing but net.  Phoof!!!

I took care of the aftermath and turned to flush when I noticed the gargantuan specimen looking back up at me from the porcelain bowl.  I'm not bragging, nor is this anything to be proud of, but I am a little impressed at the slick torpedo that was laid to rest in the tiny toilet stall at the Home Depot.  By my estimation, it had to be between 14 to 16 inches in length, and it wasn't coiled.  It was straight as the crow flies, nestled comfortably at the bottom of the bowl.  I was almost tempted to take a picture of it with my phone, but quickly decided against it as I don't know of anyone who would be as impressed with this feat as I was (and am).

I flushed and forever lost the evidence of my visit to the Home Depot, but the memory is still in my head.  I remember leaving the confines of the tiny bathroom thinking, "That was one helluva trouser snake."  It was then that I knew I'd have to share this with the world, via my blog, Brain Matter!

Language Lessons

I'M MOVING!!!  Packing up my shit, tucking my cat under my arm and f*cking off!!!  Getting the f*ck outta here, man.  Damn straight.  I'm grabbing a globe.  I'm going to spin the f*ck out of it, then jab my finger down on it.  Where my finger lands, that's where me and my cat, Monkey, are going to call home!!!

Actually...  I'm not really moving.  I can't think of anywhere I'd rather live than here in Toontown.  Maybe if I had one of my dream jobs, I'd consider another location to call home, but here in reality, I'm staying put.

If I was going to move away, off to a far off land..., let's say Fucktopia.  You'd be god damned sure that I'd learn the language.  The absolute basics of the Fucktopian language, at the very least.  Hello's.  Good-bye's.  Where's the f*ckin' bank?  Police.  Doctor.  As well as, basic sentences and phrases.  .

For example:  If I were working in a factory setting and a fellow came along and asking assistance in lifting and moving something too heavy for one fella to handle, I'd hope to understand enough to help the poor bastard out, instead of standing there with my dick in my hand, smiling like a retard, nodding and repeating "Hi!"  I think it's necessary to have, at least a basic grasp of the language used by those who reside where you choose to reside.  It's only respectful for those around you..

Let me clarify this more clearly.  I'm employed at a local factory that produces farm implements.  A majority of those employed at the facility are of Filipino decent.  Fresh off the boat, brought here to Toontown, specifically for employment here.  A fairly large percentage of those immigrated folk, can't even speak a lick of English, which makes working along side of some of them rather frustrating.

The facility, where I'm employed, is split into two plants.  An east plant and a west plant, each producing a different implement or two.  Today, a fella from the east plant was ill and I was instructed to go over and cover for some of his duties, one of which was to transport a rack into the assembly line and transfer emptied paint racks from the stand to the rack.  Some of the paint racks are small and light enough to handle alone, but most of the others are really f*cking heavy and require two people to lift and carry them.

The first few were fine.  I'd drive along side of the stands and pop each side onto the rack.  Others though... Wow.  Un-f*cking-believable, how heavy these things were.  So I walked up to one of the workers standing there, staring off into space and asked, "Hi!  Could I borrow you for a second to help me move this rack, please?"  To which the daydreaming foreigner smiled and looked straight at me and answered, "Hi," followed by a long-ass pause, where he continued to smile and nod.

I walked back to the painted rack, thinking he was following behind me.  When I turned, I noticed no one was there and the daydreamer was still standing there smiling and nodding.  "Hi!  Hi!  Hi!"

If this occurred just once, I'd understand.  One lump of shit overlooked in the sandbox, but this happened two more additional times.  Not to sound rude (too late), but I guess I should've looked for a round-eyed f*cker to lend me a hand.

At least these folks had the decency to smile.  Some of the Filipino folks in the west plant just stand there and stare at you like you have a piece of snot caught in your beard.  Giving you, almost, a look of total disgust.  As if I were the one who just stepped off the boat.  Even people who've been here, in Canada, for a decade or two, can't speak any of the language.  How stupid is that?!

Comedian, Andrew "Dice" Clay once said: "If you can't speak the language, get the f*ck out of the country!!"  More truer words have never been uttered by anyone before or since then...

Dumb Ass

I'm not a fan of Justin Bieber by any means.  I find him quite annoying and after seeing a video of him blowin' off a fan a couple of years ago, I've since thought of him as a prissy prick prima donna, citing "If it weren't for those fans, you'd be a f*ckin' nobody, lost somewhere in Canada.  However, with all that said and done, I gotta give credit where credit is due.

I'm in no way praising his musical prowess, as I doubt he's very musical, or able to sing very well.  I must take this opportunity to say, though, that I have no f*cking idea what the hell he sings, nor could I accurately identify any of his songs if I were to hear them on the radio. (Thank god for satellite radio and Howard Stern, for sparing me from hearing the waves of bubblegum shit that's considered "music" nowadays.)  I did see him perform on New Year's Eve, but thankfully the hosts of the party I was at, had the volume turned down, and I was only forced to see this self-indulgent little shit dance around like a cheerleader.  All that being said, I did say I was going to give "credit where credit was due"..

Credit where credit is due.  Actually, as it turns out, he's free and clear of receiving the credit or the blame for what happened (in his name) on New Year's Day.  Apparently, the pop star, overcompensating for his short stature, five foot six inches, owns a flashy new Ferrari, which was seen racing about the streets and freeways of Los Angeles.  Hot on it's tail was a paparazzi photographer with high hopes of catching the dwarf-like crooner in a compromising situation.  Sure enough, the CHP (California Highway Police) pulled the Italian sports car over.  Turns out neither the driver nor the co-pilot were Justin Bieber, but rather a couple of his douche bag coat tail riders who were out for a joyride.  Unbeknownst to the paparazzo who was bootin' it across the busy highway to get a better angle for his photograph, wound up getting schmucked by an oncoming automobile and killed.

So I've seen in the media and heard on the radio, that people are trying to blame Justin Bieber for this fool getting his ass rundown.  What the f*ck?!?  Motherf*ckin' Bieber wasn't even there!  Granted Bieber is useless as f*ck, but why blame the kid for someone else being a f*ckin' moron?  Over a f*cking picture of a kid getting a speeding ticket.  I've gotten more than my fair share of speeding tickets since getting my driver's license, and while I'm not saying I'm a teen pop star with whom all the kiddies wanna get with, if some stupid son-of-a-bitch got laid out by a Buick while I was stopped for a ticket, their death would not be my responsibility.  Nor should Bieber get blamed for this idiot's death.

The f*cker (photographer) should've known the risks of having such a cheese ball job and chasing after celebrities, so if the f*cker dies (which he did), then the f*cker dies.  It's as simple as that.  To quote yesterday's blog, "Que Sera Sera, Whatever will be, will be".  More simply put, if you're gonna be dumb, then chances are..., you're gonna die.  Dumbass!!!

Religious Persecution

In recent years, the world has been going to hell in a hand basket.  Everyone is tip-toeing around, afraid to say certain phrases or make certain gestures for fear of making someone uncomfortable.  People aren't allowed to politely wish someone a Merry Christmas, as it may offend someone of another faith.  Schools no longer present Christmas pageants for adoring parents to watch their younglings stumble and stammer over difficult dialogue and terrible costuming, for it may offend someone who doesn't believe in the birth of Christ. Churches aren't even aloud to display manger scenes on the front lawns of their own grounds.  Soon it'll be taboo to position a Christmas tree in the front window if the curtains are to be left open.  Simply put...  What the f*ck is wrong with people these days?

I've never backed down from the admission that I don't believe in God or Jesus or any of that religious hooey.  I don't fault others for believing in it.  If it gives you peace, love and happiness to believe in an invisible man who created everything in the world, and nothing was ever created by mankind themselves, then that's you're prerogative.  I don't need to believe it, nor do I give two shits if you do.  I will say, though, some of my fondest memories of growing up, were from performing, albeit poorly, in those Christmas pageants.

(*I know it's politically correct to say "humankind" now, but I don't give a shit.)

I can respect any person who felt it necessary to flee from whatever backwards country or regime where their own self-preservation felt threatened.  I can respect the fact that they have found solace and safety within the borders of Canada or the U.S. or any country that embraces free will and expression.  I cannot respect any person who relocates to my country or any of those listed, and finds it necessary to impose their beliefs and wills on us, just so they don't feel persecuted.  That makes these selfish motherf*ckers no better than the oppression they fled from.  If some middle-eastern bloke wishes to wear a turban and pray to the east twice a day, that's fine, but if I choose to wish you a Merry Christmas, then suck it up and say thank you.  It's not the words themselves that mean the most.  It's the good will behind those words.  It's so rare to find genuine kindness in people anymore, that when this time of year roles around, if someone expresses pleasantries towards another, those words should be met with the same form of kindness.  DON'T raise a stink and start a campaign to ban the words.

Words do have multiple meanings, for f*ck sake!  Even the F-word itself has multiple meanings, as you can learn from this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26UA578yQ5g 

Another example would be the word "fag".  If you go to Dictionary.com, you'll see one of the many meanings for the word, is a verb to describe one growing weary or tired from a laborious task.  Another meaning is to fray the end of a rope.  When used as a noun, it is used to describe a cigarette or a defective piece of woven cloth.  As you read this, were you aware of these meanings or were you like me, and only believed the word to be an offensive term bestowed upon the gay community.  I'd always thought it was a bastardized term derived from the meaning of "happiness" or "fun", like in the Flintstones Theme (ie. ...You'll have a yabba-dabba-doo time, you'll have a gay... ol'... time).  Even the word "faggot" means: A bundle.  Be it sticks, cloth, or even iron bars.  I even read that it refers to balled up pork bound by herbs and breading then deep fried.  That faggot sounds delicious!

Another example was presented last year during the NBA 2011-2012 season, where a player of Asian decent showed great promise and agility.  He'd been overlooked and sold short by teams before, and even his new team, the New York Knickerbockers, had considered cutting him, but after a barrage of injuries to the roster, The Knicks gave Jeremy Shu-How Lin an opportunity to play, and the sensational Season of Lin-sanity and Lin-vincibility was born.  Jeremy proceeded to play absolutely Lin-credible for many of the games that were to follow.  Then there was the game where it was destined for the New York Knicks to lose a game.  A color-commentator remarked that the opposing team had found a "chink in their armor".  Well the accusations began to fly that this commentator was a bigot and so forth.  If you look up the word "chink", it clearly refers to: a crack, cleft or fissure;  a narrow opening; to breach, rent or cut.  It even refers to the sound of two glasses coming together, as in a toast.  At the bottom of the page, it does mention that it's also a disparaging and offensive term for someone of Asian decent.  But come on.  Shit like that is only used by the uneducated and uncultured folks.  You know...?  Like rednecks!

In the city where I reside, the city transit have digital message boards that display the route of the bus, as well as other messages.  If our local hockey team is doing well, the message may read "Go Blades!!!"  I'm not a Blades fan, but I'm not going to raise a stink over the fact that others like and support the team.  On July 1st, they read "Happy Canada Day!"  That's cool.  At during the Christmas season, they read "Merry Christmas!!!" and that is fine with me.

If anyone is a hater and does not approve of the message of good will, then may I make a suggestion.  Instead of disagreeing and raising an Anti-Christmas campaign and threatening a lawsuit, as this local f*ck-nut, Ashu Solo is doing in Saskatoon, do us all a favour and either go the f*ck back to whatever shit-hole you came from or step in front of one of these city buses that you're so offended by.  Either way, we won't have to listen to your bellyaching anymore.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!!!
(And if you have a problem with that, I don't give a shit!)