The Aardvark

When I'm at work, I need the radio to be playing.  When I first started the job, I went weeks without a radio and often found myself either distracted and unable to concentrate on the work in front of me.  Either that or I'd often find myself singing, under my breath, whatever song happened to grind it's way into the inner sanctum of my brain.  Eddie Grant's Electric Avenue was stuck in there a lot and I've come to dislike the song, somewhat.  That one and Don MacLean's American Pie.  "What?!?"  I'm sure someone is thinking, right now after reading that statement, but try getting it stuck in your head for weeks at a time.

Eventually, when I grew too tired of composing my own songs just to entertain myself when I was alone driving the bus, I got my self a radio, albeit a transistor radio at first, which only received a signal when I worked on the east side of the city.  Anything west of Idylwyld Drive, was met with constant static interruptions, which aggravated me as much as it annoyed me.  Next I got a small speaker from Visions which worked well, but only lasted about five, maybe six hours, if I was lucky.  So it was back to the ol' drawing board, one more time.  This time I didn't cheap out by purchasing something from the discontinued aisle.  Instead, I went to Costco and purchased a JBL speaker which, despite being dropped a handful of times, works like a motherf**king charm.

I spent my mornings listening to Clayton and Stacie on Cruz-FM and in the afternoons, I would either listen to Regina's The Wolf or Saskatoon's Rock 102 FM.  Especially after Cruz shit-canned their afternoon guy, the legendary Dave 'Muzik' Morgan.  His replacement sucks.  Then a few months later, I switched over to Rock 102 FM, exclusively, when Cruz went on another inexplicable firing tirade and fired the morning guy, Clayton Kroeker.   Stacie is awesome, but she doesn't have the chops to broadcast alone, so I deserted the radio station in favour of greener pastures and I'm glad I did.

I began listening to Whitney in the afternoons on Rock 102 FM and she's a blast to listen to.  Always in a jovial mood, I can only imagine the joy it must be to work with someone like this, who always seems to be in good spirits.  

One day Whitney was trying to help out this guy who'd called in.  He had two tickets to see his favourite band, but his dilemma was choosing who to go to the show with.  Either his wife or his daughter.  Whitney had all sorts of people calling in offering up ideas and so with a few minutes to spare on my route, I overcame the anxiety I have about placing phone calls (*I imagine there's a blog in there about that) and I called in to the radio station.  Whitney was a hoot to chat with and she played right along with the insanity that I offered up.  I simply stated, "He should take his daughter.  Wives come and go," I added, "But daughters are forever."  I don't know exactly why I stated it like that, I don't even have a daughter...., or a wife, for that matter, but Whitney got a helluva kick out of the statement and for several months that followed, I'd hear my raspy radio voice repeating that statement during some of the radio breaks.

Not long after that, Sully joined the Rock 102 crew and he fit in like a glove.  The two of them, Whitney and Sully, are like long lost siblings.  The way they tease each other, you can sense that there's a lot of love and respect shared between the two, but when Whitney is "bullying" Sully (for lack of a better term), the results are hilarious.  Sully being from Vancouver, originally, the radio station has been trying to "Saskatchewanize" Sully.  They did a question and answer portion on the show one day, in which poor Sully got an electric shock every time he answered a Saskatchewan question incorrectly, but truth be known, I've been here my entire life, minus a six month stint in Edmonton, Alberta, and I'm not familiar with a lot of the "Saskatchewan terminology" that Sully was failing to answer correctly.  I've often thought about challenging him to a Saskatchewan-off in a year's time.  See if this Vancouver transplant is more Saskatchewan than myself, who was born and bred in this province.

Long story short -- TOO LATE!!  I began calling in to the station on a semi-regular basis and in the meantime, managed to score a nice collection of goodies and prizes.  I'll spare the details, but one of the best items I received was two tickets to see Finger Eleven at the Ex, which I attended with my best bro, Dan, who I also brought with me, when I received a $50 gift certificate to Tapps Sports Lounge.  It got to the point where I was calling in so often that I felt I needed an identity.  I'd hear other people, regulars, calling in and they all had nifty nicknames, but all of the nicknames that I have, seem too silly to broadcast on local radio.  I love that online, I'm the one and only ToontownJuggalo, but people would react foolishly to that name, likely confusing the term "juggalo" for "gigolo" which would be greatly incorrect and mildly offensive, plus I get annoyed trying to repeatedly explain shit to people, so I avoided using that nickname.  Another nickname that I've adopted in the last few months is Aardvark, which again, requires some explanation which I'm unwilling to do.  So I stuck with who I am.  I'm Jeff.

I'm Jeff, but I'm not just any Jeff.  I'm The Jeff.

(Not actually a picture of me. I don't like sleeves
or turtle necks, but I'd kill for that hairline.)

I figured, any bumbling fool can be a Jeff.  It's really not that difficult. I'm living proof of that.  I've been stumbling through life for decades as Jeff and it's nothing spectacular.  However, only a precious few or one, can be The Jeff and folks, that one and only, is this guy.  Me.  I'm now The Jeff, at least as far as calling in to the radio station.  I needed something that would set me apart from everyone else and by Jove, I think I found it.

I could've went with That Jeff, but upon further retrospect, I decided that no one wants to That Jeff.  Why would you?  That guy is....  Well, That Jeff is one odd duck and as awesome as ducks go, the odd ones are just... weird.  Of course, referring to oneself as "The", is a little strange in and of itself, but that's why I'm the Aardvark.  Because I'm unique. 😁

Haters Gonna Hate Hate Hate

Speaking of hate, I hate the fact that I quoted Taylor Swift for the title of this blog, but don't hold that against me.  That annoying song is a part of pop culture and for argument sake, it fits the subject matter of today's blog.

I'm an avid user of Twitter.  I don't have a high number of followers.  Not many people privy to my unique stance on the world.  In fact,  I'm still yo-yoing in the vicinity of 250 followers, after four years.  I still have fun with it, though.  Trading comments, remarks and praises with my favourite celebrities.  

Once in a while, though, I'm greeted with unwelcome comments, remarks aimed to discredit or belittle me, usually on a personal level.  I generally ignore these comments, but once in a blue moon, a comment crosses before my eyes that I simply cannot leave alone.

One thing that I find most irresistible is my ability to point out the flaws, shortcomings and blatant mistakes that people make.  Spelling errors, poor grammar or general stupidity, I find impossible to not point out, or even belittle, depending on it's severity.

I have a friend on Facebook, whom I continually correct spelling and grammar mistakes.  She thinks I do it out of a need to make her feel stupid, despite my repeated assurances that I don't do it for that reason.  Instead, I do it..., simply because I have no choice.  It's as involuntary as deciding to breathe.  The fact that I point out that her poor education is due to growing up in the city of Regina, Saskatchewan, IS by choice, but that's only because Regina is such a shit-hole.  It's true.  Look it up!

Earlier today, while looking through my Twitter feed, I saw a posting from TMZ that remarked: #Breaking: ATL Hawks star, Thabo Sefolosha, in HEATED scuffle with NYPD officers...  They offer up a video, which I did not click on because, frankly, I don't give a shit.  I did, however, make a quick comment, which was meant as a humourous quip based on the fact that celebrities usually get special treatment over regular folks.  "@TMZ Do the police not know that he's a celebrity? #DifferentRulesForCelebs" is what I wrote.  Less than a minute later, I received a comment from a fellow by the Twitter handle of @prototypekicks, who began questioning my use of the word 'celebrity'.  Back and forth we exchanged comments, each response I received, the more disparaging they got.  I'm not proud of myself, but I deduced that this fellow was of limited education and the meaner he got, the meaner I got.  Unfortunately, when I get mean, I go for blood, getting as vicious as I can.  I go for the jugular, with hopes of offending the party so deeply, they'll give up and leave me alone.

I don't know who Thabo Sefolosha is.  I don't watch basketball.  I barely consider basketball as an actual sport.  Given the terrible physical shape that I'm in, I consider any activity that I can do, can't actually be considered a sport.  Even if I can't do it well, if I can still do it, it's not a sport.  For instance, I'll never make it on the PGA circuit, but I can bang the f*ck out of a golf ball, and therefore golf is not a sport.  That withstanding, the goofball, @prototypekicks, begins giving me the basketball player's stats and claiming that his lack of skill, prevents him from being a celebrity.  Even though, by definition a celebrity is: A famous or well-known person.

@prototypekicks apparently did a check on my Twitter account, as he began attacking this very blog.  Upon reciprocating and doing the same on his account, I gather that he possesses a fetish for sneakers as his photos are overrun with pictures of the gayest looking shoes I've ever seen.  There's no way in hell that any self-respecting man would be seen wearing those shoes, unless it were while performing yard work or shoveling manure.  Hashtag: Ugly as f*ck!

As Taylor Swift croons; Haters are gonna hate hate hate, and I'm certain that this isn't going to be the last Twidiot that crosses paths with me.  Christ!!!  I wish I was paid a dime for every f*ckwad that I exchange words with on Twitter OR Facebook.  I've had to stop following many of my favourite wrestling sites on FB, due to assholes blanketing me with a horrendous barrage of hatred if I say anything negative about the WWE.  

In the end, assholes are going to continue to be gaping assholes, so long as a level of anonymity accompanies their dickishness.  I could care less.  I stand behind every stupid comment I make.  I welcome any backlash that may come of it.  I'm not afraid of any of these simple-minded fools.  Chances are, I could Jedi Mind Trick most of them with the wave of my hand...  Or simply jingle my keys to distract.  I'm not saying I'm better than everyone I interact with on the internet, but DO say that I'm smarter than a majority of them.

"Water's wet.  The sky is blue.  Fact is, I'm way smarter than most of you!" - ToontownJuggalo, to the World Wide Web.

Smoke & Mirrors - The Epilogue

Years ago, I had a blog on another site.  There I'd post on a daily basis, under the pseudonym of ToontownJuggalo.  I was lucky when I came up with that name.  I was the first one ever to be referred to by that name.  Numero uno.  On that site, I posted only as that persona and never divulged a single secret about who I was, although much of my personality did bleed into those posts.  I never shared any of those entries on Facebook or Twitter.  They all remained in-house, so to speak.  It was on that sight that I wrote about Chewbacca never having shit stuck in his fur.  That's where I first speculated on the the reason behind why Christ Benoit committed those horrific acts towards his family before committing suicide, which was a full six months before the science came back and YES, confirmed my theory ten-fold.  It was also on that site, where I would write out what was affecting me on that day.  Celebrations that I never got to share with anyone, as well as the sorrow and sadness of coping with whatever was bothering me.  There was a hand full of regular readers, none of which were directly affiliated with me, except when I was dealing with the loss of my friend Darcy.  That's when I needed to share with people and the stone wall that I had built around my "illness" began to crumble.

As the years have passed by, I've kept most of my walls up, guarding myself from being hurt.  It's easier for me to deal with my demons one-on-one, than it is to fight them off and worry about what everyone else is thinking.  I know that at the core of it all, the really important people in my life, will be there in a time of crisis, if needed.  I only hope that I have the courage necessary to extend a hand in hopes of getting that support.

I've said it before and I'll say it again.  I'm shy.  I'm painfully shy.  I'm like Robin Williams, in a way.  I could always see that insecurity that he possessed.  He acted out, all happy, goofy and comically in an effort to mask his insecurities, but those of us who know...  We knew.  I'm just like Robin, only instead of being jovial, I'm snide and snarky.  Kind of a dick, at times.  I like to joke, but my sense of humour is dark, just like my soul.

I'd like to be more popular.  I'd like people to want to have me around.  I'd like people to miss me, even.  I wish I could be like other people.  But I don't want to be other people.  I'd like to know how to be like them.  Confident and self-assured.  I don't know how to be like that.  I don't know how to make friends.  I have friends, but I honestly don't know when they transitioned from being acquaintances to being friends.

I remember when the towers came down on 9/11.  Sitting alone in my livingroom, eyes glued on the television set, and I never felt so alone.  I got news over a year ago about black spots found on my lung and I had to endure that alone.  Still have to.  I'm trying hard not to think about it, but I have to admit, it's getting increasingly difficult to do so.

I used to have a couple female friends who would happily give me a hug whenever I'd ask.  Trisha...  I miss Trisha's hugs.  She was a single mom and her hugs always felt so warm and genuine.  Taya was the same way.  My friend Sonia always offers up a hug when I see her.  That's always a highlight, but I wouldn't dare ask anyone I'm currently with, because I know I'd get that "are you f*cking serious" look.  I don't need that look.

Today, this is me.  The walls have all crumbled away.  This is who I am.  Take it or leave it.  I'm done.  I'm tired of hiding in the shadows.  It's time to step into the light, my faults and everything.  Sadly, my family will still not know who I am, but aah.  F*ck 'em..!

Now if you'll excuse me.  I've been sitting at this table on this hard-as-f*ck chair for over six hours, closing in on seven.  My ass hurts tremendously and I have a headache forming.  My cat is screaming like a banshee and won't use his words to explain.  I'm going to go smoke a bowl and have a good night.   See you on the flip-side.

A Higher Wage for Minimal Work

I just read a tweet on my Twitter account (@ToontownJuggalo) where someone mentioned that they were going to boycott McDonald's until the company begins paying their employees a higher wage.  This decision strikes two chords with me.

Number one: It's f*cking McDonald's.  Arguably, the biggest franchise on the planet Earth.  I'm sure the corporation couldn't give a flying f*ck whether you come to their restaurant to pick up some chicken nuggets or chocolate shake.  They boast (right on their sign) that they've served over a billion people.  Subtracting a handful of well-meaning celebrities, really won't make much of a difference.

Number two:  It's f*cking McDonald's.  At best the company should be a stepping stone to a greater vocation.  To start a job flipping f*cking fries at McDonald's and thinking this could be a career for you, then you may as well take a long walk off a short pier.  I know that for a fast food conglomerate like Mickey D's, you can't rely on the pimply-faced kids to captain the helm.  Some responsible adult supervision is needed, but those should be the guys who worked at McDonald's as a kid, left to go to college, then returned with a marketing degree to man the head offices.  If you're thinking you can support your family while working the drive-thru at McDonald's, then you've got a f*cking screw loose.  Get the f*ck out while you can, dude (or dude-ette).  A McDonald's wage should be suffice enough to put gas in your car, maybe get that T-shirt or skirt you've had your eye on at the mall, or maybe buy a couple of joints.  (That last one is only a suggestion, because let's face it, you work at f*cking McDonald's.)

Bare Assed