In Over My Head

 

For as long as I can remember, one of my biggest fears is drowning.  An understandable fear, which I'm sure is shared by most, if not all, but not something that is observed on a daily basis.  No one sets out to drown...  Well.  Maybe some, but that's a different set of circumstances and thought processes.  What initially sparked this fear, for me, was watching a movie many many (many) years ago, that cemented this fear for me.

The movie was "White Squall" from 1996, which is a story based on the true events which occurred in 1960 to a group of prep schoolers who set out to sea aboard an old-fashioned sailing vessel.  The trip is to teach the young men fortitude and discipline, but what they actually receive is a crash course in survival after the ship they're on, capsizes from being hit by a white squall, which occurred just three weeks short of their final destination.  Starring an all-star cast, including Jeff Bridges, Ryan Phillippe, Jeremy Sisto, Scott Wolf, among many others.  One scene that clinched this unbridled fear was when the ship is sinking and there's a shot of some classmates locked behind a door.  After many failed attempts, survivors are forced to abandon their classmates.  The fear on their eyes was relentless, striking a fear in me that has lasted all these years, later.  Just the idea of not dying immediately, but to watch the water levels slowly rise to the point where all oxygen is lost and you're forced to take that final breath and suck in all that water.  It's purely horrifying.

]That's not what this blog is about and I apologize for leading you astray.  It was a decent movie, if I remember correctly, so if you have an opportunity to give it a looksy, take a chance with it, it's only two hours, after all.]

Driving home, tonight, I saw a young fellow walking along the road that runs parallel to the river.  The weather being as frigid and cold as it is, the decision to walk that route, especially when the next set of houses isn't for, at least, a quarter mile or so.  My imagination, as it often does, began to race at all the infinite possibilities of what may be going on.  Perhaps he's unfamiliar with the city and doesn't know that walking along this route is futile.  Or maybe, and my mind went to a dark place, he's not feeling very well, mentally, and he was hoping to gain access to the river to... You know.  End his misery. 

It was at that moment that my brain abandoned the young fellow and immediately began analyzing my own fears concerning drowning.  The thoughts raced through my head like ponies at the Kentucky Derby.  I vocalized, out loud, how it horrified me.  Then I paused...

What if I was tossed into a lake of gravy?  I love gravy and as much as it would suck to drown, would it be so bad if it was in gravy?  Then I abandoned that idea.  A lake of gravy?  Really?  "What's wrong with me?" I thought to myself. 🤨  A vat of gravy would make so much more sense.  That's when my thoughts and concerns for the young man had completely vanished.  Now my thoughts went straight to trying to figure out just how large a vat actually is.  While I've used the word 'vat' many times as a safety word in Words With Friends, I barely know anything beyond that and what they're used for.

According to Google, and I'm paraphrasing this to simplify an otherwise complicated response to a relatively easy query, but that's Google for ya.  a vat is generally around 26 U.S. gallons.  How that relates to actual size in inches or feet, I don't know.  I Googled pictures and it ranged from a large cooking pot to something you'd store beer in.

 

I'm mostly curious about the size of a vat, because I believe, if it was beef gravy, like illustrated above, that I might be capable of drinking myself to safety, al la Bob McKenzie from the movie "Strange Brew" (1983).  The container on the left would be challenging but if I hunkered down and dedicated myself, like Adam Moran of Beard Meats Food fame.  (If you don't already, look him up on YouTube.  His videos are as fun and enjoyable as they are challenging to watch - sometimes.😄)

Of course this is all ridiculous.  It's in my nature.  It's how I entertain myself.  I hope this entertained you, as well.  No use in being serious all the time.  What's the use in that?  No fun.

 
Strange Brew / Bob McKenzie (left) Adam Moran "Beard Meats Food" (right)

Dinks and Dingalings

Anyone can be a ding-a-ling, but only a few are dinks.

When I began my new vocation as a transit operator, I was careful to not miss any stops, looking for people and listening for stop requests.  On my ITS computer, I set it to show the stops, as I don't always know or remember.  As I would approach these stops, I'd whisper to myself, "No dingers; No people." meaning I didn't have to stop.  As the time wore on, I shortened the reference to "No ding-a-lings", which was an affectionate reference to people being silly or a ding-a-ling of sorts.  This week, I changed it again.

Noticing that not all the chimes are the same in the different buses, I noted that while some chimes are of a pleasant and almost playful 'ding', some of the bells possessed more of a "ding-k" sound, which made me laugh.  Now I refer to people as one of two terms.  Either a ding-a-ling or a dink.

Dink is a silly sounding word.  I've heard it in reference to the male genitalia, although when Google'd, if refers to something much more sinister and less silly sounding.  It's of a racial nature that does not need to be repeated in this forum, but if you must quench that thirst for curiosity, feel free to Google it yourself.  To me, however, the word in and of itself is every bit as amusing to say and hear as it is vulgar.  That's where it applies best for my job.

Anyone can be a ding-a-ling, I stated in the opening line of this blog, but not everyone is a dink.  Just the ignorant assholes are dinks.  The people who get on the bus, refusing to pay the reasonable $3 fare.  Those who get on and make some feeble-ass excuse why they won't or can't pay.  Or people who just act like complete assholes when they ride.  Dink. Dink. Dink...  All dinks!!

Then there are those who quietly get on, pay their fare and sit quietly, awaiting their destination.  Those who call out a friendly 'thank you' when they're stepping off the bus.  Those who engage in a friendly 'hello' or chit-chat about the weather.  The friendly folk who barely make a mark on one's day, because they're so pleasant.  I love those ding-a-lings.  Sadly, it's those dinks who stand out.

One particular dink stood out on Monday.  He never paid his fare, but took it upon himself to verbally attack to Muslim women who were seated quietly.  They paid their fare, but he had to give them his opinions of how they were abusing the system, taking advantage of the Canadian government, stealing "our" cash and strongly suggested they go back to their country.  He explained that he didn't appreciate that it was "our tax money" that pays for the buses and that people shouldn't be riding for free.  I guess he didn't sense the irony that he never paid for his ride, nor has he ever (I suspect) paid any taxes.  Pretty tough to pay taxes when you're unemployed, sucking the government's welfare teat and hooked on paint thinner.  [For legal reasons, I should add: Allegedly.]  The guy was a supreme dink.  I kindly asked him not to harass the riders, but he got confrontational and I had to back off to avoid being assaulted or worse.  

That's the world we live in now.  Where good and bad live out in the open.  Good and evil, as it were.  Ding-a-lings and dinks, coexisting and those of us forced to spectate.  Which one are you?  Which one am I?  I pray I'm not a dink, though I may have a dink-ish attitude, sometimes, but I'm trying to be a ding-a-ling.  I truly am.

Wookin' Pah Nub

Once upon a time, I worked with this girl.  She was a spectacular young woman and I was infatuated with her in so many ways. She'd, quite often, come to work with this huge infectious smile, despite whatever turmoil was going on in her life.  It was mostly boy troubles.  She'd date a guy for a week or two, completely fall for the guy, then before too long, usually a week or two, the guy would dump her.  I'm not sure why, nor did she ever go into detail as to what reasons were given to her for being dumped.  She'd be in the break room, telling of her sorrows, when I'd chime in, "It's because you date boys.  You need a man." I'd say, "You should just marry me.  We'd laugh about the suggestion and carry on with our day.

Eventually, these conversations were met with a different response.  She'd cry about a broken heart, I'd give the generic response of "Blah blah blah, boys. Need a man. Marry me.  Blah blah blah."  To which she would respond with, "Show me a ring."  Then we'd share a laugh.

One day, after I said "Marry me" and she gave me her reply, "Show me a ring." The laughter was more on her end, because the wheels were now turning in my head.  What started as a joke, was now becoming more real to me.  I began thinking to myself, "Why not me?"

Eventually, I was fired from that job, but we remained in contact.  Then on the Facebook, I learned that she had, once again, been dumped by some punk who never realized what an amazing girl he had.  Something popped in my head and I found myself at the mall, in a jewelry shop in front of the engagement rings and wedding bands.

I've never shared this with many people.  Maybe one or two, if memory serves.  I bought an engagement ring that day, along with the matching wedding band.  I fully intended on meeting with this girl, repeating the famous lines, "Dating boys. You need a man. Marry me." and when she was to reply with "Show me a ring." I was going to present her with a white gold band with a princess cut diamond, the exact ring that she'd spoken about for so long when we'd chat it up in the break room.  Unfortunately, she reconciled with the guy who had just broken her heart.  They remained together and I had no choice but to return the rings to the jewelry store and had my money refunded.

I don't know where this gal is, today.  I know she married that fool.  Had a child with him, then they divorced.  She wound up with another dude who had pursued her for a long time, but it wasn't me.  She would eventually leave Facebook and where she is today, I have no clue.  It'd be nice to see her again, but I don't think my feelings for her have remained.

I would have seriously married her.  I really thought the world of her and would never joke about matrimony.  I really, legitimately, cared for her.  In the decade or more, since, I've never really entertained the idea of entering a relationship with another female.  Nothing, in my mind, could ever compare with how I felt about this one individual.

Throughout the years, since, I've only entertained the idea of a relationship with a woman for, arguably, selfish reasons.  If my vehicle was in need of repair, I'd think, "I wish I had a girlfriend who was a mechanic." Then I'd have someone to fix my shit.  Or if I was suffering some aches and pain, I thought, "I wish I had a girlfriend who was a physiotherapist or a physician."  Or sometimes, I'd think, "It'd be cool to have a girlfriend who was also a police officer."  Handcuffs.  I'll leave that to stew in your head. 😁

I never seriously ventured down that road, though.  Romance is a two-way street and as beneficial as it would be to have a relationship with someone, of any profession, I've never considered myself that interesting of a person.  I'm opinionated and, frankly, I think most would probably frown on my world views.  Plus, it's very easy to annoy me.  If I view someone as less intelligent, many times I find myself disinterested in them.  Ignorance, is a deal breaker, as is smoking or just a shitty negative attitude.  More reasons for me to choose the bachelor lifestyle, rather than wrapping myself up in a liaison that could (and probably would) very well end badly.

Recently, I was the victim of a catfish incident.  It was the very first time that (A) my bullshit detector failed and (B) that I'd considered a relationship with a woman.  In the end, I don't know what hurt more.  The fact that this woman, who I'd been communicating with for just short of two weeks, had blatantly lied about who she was, OR that my bullshit detector had failed.  I rely on my intuition to guide me in life.  To protect myself from anything that seems too good to be true.  Every system I have in place, failed to see the bullshit that I was being force-fed.  My usual skepticism was gone and I found myself reconsidering my place in life and thinking of how I might reconfigure in order to accommodate this new relationship.  In the end, my guard rose up and I did some digging, via Google, and learned that this person was full of shit and I called them out on it.

I should have felt victorious, but in reality, I was crushed.  For a short minute, I felt validated.  I felt like I was worthy of such a high level of affection and in the end, I was just a mark that some dummy thought she could manipulate.

Today, just a month or two removed from the catfishing incident, I am alone, once more.  I no longer feel like the worthless piece of shit that I did a few short weeks ago.  I think it may be some close friends who have provided me support in the right way.  Once again, I'm entertaining the idea of seeking out love or romance, but have to overcome some obstacles before proceeding.  Even then, I'm hesitant.  I still don't find myself being overly interesting.  I'm still opinionated, but hopefully, I can meet that special someone, eventually, who I find I can't live without.  Someone who gets my jokes.  Someone who I can share and actual conversation with and not someone who just waits for their turn to talk.  I want someone who completes me, not to sound like that cheesy Tom Cruise movie.  I always loved those scenarios where a couple can spend a comfortable evening together without ever feeling the need to speak a single word, but the feeling in the air is that of eternal bliss.

In the end, if I do choose to venture out into the world and look for a meaningful relationship, finding happiness like that of (literally) everyone around me, I don't care what her vocation is, as long as she has one and it makes her happy.  I want to rid my life of confusion, clutter and negativity, so I don't want to invite someone else's problems into my life.  I do realize, however, that if anyone is out there who has her life in order, like this, that she is likely already in a successful relationship and won't be looking for some schlub who drives a bus.  Unless, I can find a lovely young miss, who also drives a bus. 😂 

   

Profligation

Dreams.  What could they mean?  Merely products of an overactive mind?  Or do they provide a glimpse into an uncertain future?  It's difficult to say for sure, but for decades, there has loads of science investigating the unconscious state of dreaming.  The causes, the need and/or the necessity of dreaming.  That's not what this is about.

My dreams tend to air on the side of strange.  I know this much about my unconscious state.  My dreams tend to be something as stupid as white water rafting with the likes of WWE superstars, The Undertaker,  Hunter Hearst Helmsley (Triple H) and Stephanie McMahon or I've dreamt murder/mystery stories that could be blockbuster films if ever realized on the silver screen.  Most of the really good stuff, quickly disappears once I awaken and I can't remember the finite details.  (Plus, I can barely write this blog that no one reads, let alone pen the next Hollywood hit.)

This morning, I awoke about a half dozen times, from the time of 5am all the way up to the present (8:30am).  Normally when I wake up this often, my head is plagued with a number of images and stories, but not on this day.  I woke up every time, wondering..;  Is trounce a multiple of bounce?

Now before the one reader who mistakenly wandered onto this site and decided "What the hell?" and read it anyway, saw this statement and has declared me a f**king moron, keep in mind, I've already Googled the meaning of both and know that bounce doesn't restrict an item to hitting the ground twice and trounce doesn't refer to three rebounds or more.  If I continued down the path of trying to declare this to be the case would be shear idiocy. This is simply an example of how my brain works.

       

In the back of my mind, I knew there was a difference.  That the explanation wasn't as simple as bi meaning two and tri meaning three.  The English language can be a little f**ked up, but it makes more sense than this.  Again, my brain works differently than other people's.  Always has, even before I had my accident.

I had a dream once, where I was at a Agriculture show with two people of whom I was familiar with (in the dream, but in real life, I hadn't met them yet).  The reason this dream was so memorable was the three of us were speaking to a farmer about emu's.  Up to this point, I had never heard of an Emu, and when I awoke, I had to investigate whether or not this was a real thing.  It is.  Many months later, I was attending a class at SIAST and our class was sent to the local Agribition, where I hung out with classmates, Christine and Derek.  Two people who I hadn't known when I had the initial dream, but whom I was familiar with that day and... Yes!  We stopped and spoke with a farmer who raised... [dramatic pause] ... Emus.  F**king weird, right?

I could fill volumes about the strange dreams I've had and have been able to remember.  Who the hell knows about all the shit I've forgotten?  I'm willing to bet that I probably did have a few million dollar ideas in the mix.  However, I believe this blog has strayed far enough off the initial subject that I had hoped to address in this blog, this morning.  I'm like Hulk Hogan, by which I mean, I can't seem to stay on one subject and am distracted by all the shiny shit that accompanies said subject.  (If you're one of the sorry souls who read Hulk Hogan's book from way back, you'll understand that reference.  It was a painful read, to say the least.)

Bounce: (verb) (of an object, especially a ball) Move quickly up, back, or away from a surface after hitting it; rebound (once or repeatedly).

(noun) Rebound of a ball or other object.

Trounce: (verb) To defeat heavily in a contest; To rebuke or punish severely.

Emu: The emu is the second-largest living bird by height, after its ratite relative, the ostrich. It is endemic to Australia where it is the largest native bird and the only extant member of the genus Dromaius.

Profligate: recklessly extravagant or wasteful in the use of resources. (Or this edition of Brain Matter.)

I don't really have an out for this blog, so I will leave you with this.  If you've made it this far into this blog and liked it?  You're my audience and you may enjoy previous entries.  They're not all golden, but some of them are pretty good.  If you begrudgingly made it this far and haven't liked a single word, except maybe Emu (because it is a fun word to say), you have my apologies.  However, you may want to check out past entries.  They're not all golden, but some of them actually are pretty good.

In closing, everyone have a Merry Christmas! 🎅

Horse In A Three-Piece Suit

 Last fall, my mom got her first "smart" phone.  She'd had a flip phone for years, struggling along as she does, but got pretty good at maneuvering her way around it's operation and use. Last fall, she finally replaced the aged technology, opting for Apple's iPhone.  Probably a terrible decision, as she hasn't the foggiest idea how to work it, often coming to me for help.  I hate Apple and can't figure out how it's technology makes any sense.  I have a strong and healthy dislike for Apple products, which is too lengthy and involved to discuss in this forum.  Suffice it to say, words in the English language can't describe how much disdain I possess for the Apple company.

So when my mother comes rushing to me, half in tears and in a deep-seated panic, most of the time I tell my mom to Google it.  I've remarked for years how one can find just about anything on Google.  Like the Land of Oz, Google is an amazing and wonderous place.

My friend D__ was telling me about his son, D_____, who is constantly bombarding him with questions about this and queries about that.  D_____ is a young man, entering the scary world of adulthood, so naturally he has a million-and-one questions.  His father, my friend, D__, told him to Google whatever he wants to know.  When told about this conversation, I responded with "Oh hell yeah.  You can literally find anything on Google.  Case and point:  A horse wearing a three piece suit.

Horse in a 3-piece suit.

Need I say more?

Man sits atop a horse
in a 3-piece suit.

Young At Heart Don't Mean Shit!!!

I've always believed that we are as young as we feel.  Hell, I've been twenty-nine years old more than once.  To be honest, I literally have to do math when asked what my chronological age is, I've celebrated twenty-nine so often.  That withstanding, my real age is beginning to catch up to me.  My knees hurt every winter, as do my neck and feet.  I frequently get migraines and my back hurts almost all of the time.  As well, there's a whole host of other ailments 'n' shit creeping up on me.  Yep!  It's true;  Young at heart, doesn't mean shit, anymore!!

The latest medical test that I've just learned that I'm going to have to endure, is something called a Cystoscopy.  For those not familiar, I didn't know what the f*ck that is, either.  Thank goodness for the interweb, as I quickly got  onto Google and looked it up.  The definition of cystoscopy reads: An endoscopy of the urinary bladder via the urethra.  That's a shit load of medical speak for what translates to: My lying on a table and medical professionals applying a freezing agent on my junk then shoving a tube up the pee-hole of my ding-dong.  The pamphlet that was sent with the notice I received in the mail, claims that I'll feel very little discomfort, if any, during the one-and-a-half to two hour procedure.  I call "bullshit" on that...!  Especially, when you consider that the aftermath is the feeling of pissing fire and blood for the duration of a few days.  Holy f*ck!!

So in mid-summer, on the morning of July 28th, while all of you are enjoying the hot summer weather, lying by the pool or in the shade, sipping on an ice cold lemonade or mint julep, I'm going to be flat on my back, in a funky-smelling hospital examination room, enduring the nervous shaking hands of a medical student rasping my dick with a pipe cleaner.  It's fun-f*cking-times, for Jeffy!!!

Bill Cosby Can Eat Shit

I don't know if it was the sudden untimely deaths of Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and "The Big Bopper", J.P. Richardson, who all died in a catastrophic plane crash on February 3rd, 1959 that began the rumour that celebrities die in threes, but during my short tenur on this earth, I've bore witness to many triads of celebrity deaths.  They may not always occur on the same day, as the did on that fateful even in early 1959, but rest assured, when one death is announced, two more are sure to follow.  This has always seemed to be the case, as far back as I can remember.  Memories have grown foggy and I can't seem to recall many specific examples, but I'm sure if you Google this fact, many familiar names will jog your memory, as I'm sure it would mine, if I were to take a moment to look.

With every death announcement, I've always, secretly, and sometimes not so secretly, hoped the next name announced would be that of Bill Cosby.  I've never liked Bill Cosby.  Always thought him to be a giant gaping asshole.  A snarky f*ck, sporting a holier-than-thou attitude,  He claims to never swear, but that snide look he wears on his face like a mask, always screams "F*CK YOU!!"  So, with every celebrity passing, I have always hoped the Grim Reaper would come a knockin' on Bill's door, but alas, Mr. Cosby always slips by, like the greasy piece of shit that he is.

In 2009, when the passing of Johnny Carson's long-time sidekick, Ed McMahon, was announced on June 23rd, oh how I crossed my fingers for the next personality's name to be that of Bill Cosby, but sadly, it was 70's blonde bombshell, Farrah Fawcett and The Prince of Pop, Michael Jackson, who would be named next, both dying on the same day, June 25th.  Bill Cosby was overlooked on that occasion, but at least a child molester [Jackson] was taken that day.

In April of last year, within a few days of one another, Bob Geldof's daughter, Peaches, comedian John Pinette, and legend of the silver screen, Mickey Rooney, all passed away.  Another trifecta that spared Mr. Cosby.

I may seem a little harsh towards Bill Cosby, but as I've stated, my dislike of the man has existed for decades.  I've never ever liked or respected the man.  I've always viewed his time on this earth as a complete waste.  It's only recently that the truth about this man has come to the fore-front and everyone can recognize him for the piece of shit that he is.  It's only now, that I've come to understand why the Grim Reaper or the "Powers That Be" have chosen him to remain upon this realm, and it's for the man to stand up for his (alleged) sins.  We have to say "alleged", but we all know the truth.  Fifty-plus women coming forward isn't a coincidence, but evidence of a sociopath.

Today, we mourn the passing of three more celebrities.  The first is an actor named Ron Moody, who won a Golden Globe Award and was an Academy Award Nominee for the role of Fagin in the movie, "Oliver!"; The second personality who passed today was professional wrestler and Hall of Famer, "The American Dream" - Dusty Rhodes, who was a legend among his peers and will be sorely missed by friends, family and fans, alike; Lastly, but not least, a true Hollywood legend, Christopher Lee, who was best known for his role as the infamous Count Dracula, but made notable appearances in the James Bond film, "The Man With The Golden Gun", as Saruman in the "Lord of the Rings/Hobbit" movies, and as Count Dooku in Episode Two and Three of the Star Wars prequels.

All have left a huge wake with their absence, but fingers crossed, we can only hope that Bill Cosby won't be too far behind.

Chuckles Mohammed

When I first conceived today's blog, it differed greatly in content then, from what it does today.  At first glance, the shootings that occurred yesterday in France, appeared to be the usual bullshit of angry religious zealots over-reacting to some kind of crap about the Prophet Mohammed being depicted publicly.  I cited the on one of the posted media blurbs, the ridiculousness of these Muslim terrorists (and those like them) who took aim at South Park's Trey Parker and Matt Stone a few years ago, when they had the Prophet Mohammed appear on an episode of South Park wearing a bear suit.  I went on to explain that Muslims lack a sense of humour.

It's amazing what you can find when you type in certain word into the search page of Google.  If you type two words: Laughing Muslims, then switch to the Images page, you find several pictures of toothy grinned Middle Easterners engaged in hearty belly-jiggling laughter.  These few images have taught me that Muslims do have a sense of humour.  I don't know the context of which these few folks are laughing.  Maybe it's at camels or goats, I'm not judging.  I doubt it's at a comedic depiction of their religious icons.  I don't know.

I've also learned, through this tragedy, that the knee-jerk reaction by the majority is...  Well...  It's really quite tragic, and that's putting it mildly.  I read on several message boards today, the condoning of complete annihilation of the Muslim people.  Comments ranging from "Islam is a Satan worshiping religion", "remove all the Muslims of the world" & "kill them all", just to name the less vile entries.  I'm guilty of similar thoughts following the events on 9/11, saying words like "we gotta barbecue their kids".  I was younger then and in a different frame of mind.  Reading these comments yesterday and today, I was horrified.

I replied to some of the despicable comments left, stating that if we, as a people, were to respond with ethnic genocide, we'd be no better than the terrorists who attacked and killed those people in France.  I went on to explain that these few tyrants do not speak for the entirety of the Islam nation.  That throughout history, individuals have been bastardizing religion to fit their own agendas.  David Koresh of the Branch Davidians fancied himself as the second coming of Christ.  I don't know exactly what the f*ck Hitler's deal was, but he obliterated millions of Jews on some kind of religious and ethnic cleansing.  Both f*cking whack-jobs, to say the least.  Bin Laden was another psychopath and these latest fools, Said and Cherif Kouachi are no different.

It's written that to discourage idolatry of the Prophet Mohammed, that his image is strictly forbidden.  Any images of him, his face should be shrouded and covered.  I've heard it said that he was just a man and as such that he never wished for any praise that might take away from God.  Sounds noble, in it's essential simplicity.  I'm not a religious man, myself, nor have I ever claimed to be.  So, personally, I don't know what to believe.

What I do believe, however, is that these people, the religious fundamentalists, need to form a sense of humour.  The target of yesterday's blood bath in France, was a French satirical, low publication newspaper called Charlie Hebdo, which featured jokes, cartoons, polemics, and reports, in  an irreverent and stridently non-conformist tone.  They were notorious for featuring comical depictions of the Prophet Mohammed, a notoriety that was known the world over.  They also poked fun at Catholicism, Judaism, Islam, culture and politics.  Everything was published in fun and aimed to be anti-racist.  Basically, if you had a sense of humour, it'd make you laugh.  These sick f*cks, Said and Cherif, apparently don't have a sense of humour.  It's been my experience that people who can't laugh are inherently dangerous.

What makes this shit all the more heinous, news reports since this tragedy, seem to have minute by minute details on these two in the years leading up to their attack yesterday.  What I fail to understand is how is it possible that officials know what these monsters were up to before they attacked and killed twelve people in Paris, yesterday?  I'm literally scratching my head.

I know that the few don't represent the many.  I don't hold the entire Muslim community responsible, but for f*ck sake, these people aren't stupid.  We westerners can spot a crack-pot when we lay eyes on them.  Why can't the Muslim majority spot these nuts and single them out?  They have to know that by doing so, it'll paint themselves and the Nation of Islam in a more positive light.  They frown upon U.S. military putting boots on the ground and policing them.  So police yourselves and hand these f*ckers over.  Save yourselves.  Save everyone.  Let us all live in harmony.... and share a laugh or two.

Ice Ice Baby

For quite a few months now, I've been witnessing people, mostly celebrities, committing the ridiculous act of torture by dumping ice cold water on themselves, then challenging others to commit the same asinine act on themselves.  I never understood why.  Then again, people are notorious, celebrities especially, for doing stupid shit.  Just look at Justin Bieber.

Of course, nobody was stating WHY they're doing it.  Thank god for Google.  Without Google, I'd be totally f*cked.  I can't remember what I did ten years ago.  Living in caveman days....

According to Google, the Ice Bucket Challenge is supposed to bring attention to the disease, ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis), also known as Lou Gehrig's disease.  Never knew that until I read it on Google, so EPIC FAIL in that regard.

The story also explained that those who participate in the challenge, donate $10 to the cause, dump the ice water on themselves and challenge three others to do the same.  Apparently, dumping ice water on yourself is quite painful.  I wouldn't know.  I don't do stupid shit like that.  The closest I ever came to it was falling through some ice on a frozen dugout a few years ago (long story).  So I'm no stranger to what ice cold water feels like against your skin, but it's not something I'm going to re-enact, charity or no charity. 

Three people are challenged to dump ice water on themselves, post a video and challenge others to do the challenge.  Those who fail to perform the challenge within a twenty-four hour period, are supposed to donate $100.  This seems to make more sense than dumping water on yourself.

Those who choose not to do the challenge, I've read on my Twitter (@ToontownJuggalo), seem to be labeled cowardly, despite the fact that they're donating the larger sum of money.  Actor/comedian Chris D'Elia chose to donate rather than look like a f*cking idiot dumping water on themselves, but got called out by his "supposed" fans.  I completely understand his logic, as do I totally respect Charlie Sheen who video'd himself dumping $10,000 cash on himself.  Charlie and Chris both get the f*cking idea.  I would hope that the celebrities who have uploaded videos of themselves dumping water on themselves are donating more than a measly ten bucks towards the charity, except maybe Bieber.  He seems like a cheap-ass little prick.

What's ironic is the fact that so many cities, counties, states, and countries are complaining of water shortages, meanwhile people are dumping gallons upon gallons of water on themselves.  This doesn't impress me.  If the celebrities want to boast their charitable natures by doing stupid shit, lets see some videos of you slamming your fingers in car doors.  Now THAT's  a charity I'd pitch in for.

Davy Jones' Locker

First of all, may I just say that Google is f*cking amazing.  No matter how stupid the search description is that is typed into the information bar, more times than not, the exact result is found within a fraction of a second.  Believe me when I say, "I've set forth, deter-mined to find a picture for some really stupid shit, and by god, Google finds it every f*cking time.  I've tried that with Bing....  F*ck Bing.  Useless as all f*ck, but Google?  Absolutely amazing!  When I punched in "Pirate Grasshopper", I didn't think I'd actually find a 'grasshopper pirate'.  Granted, it looks pretty cheezy, but they can't all be golden.