Bully

Today, February 26th, 2025 is being touted as Pink Shirt Day, in which people wear Pink Shirts to raise awareness and funding for anti-bullying initiatives.  I did not participate for a couple of reasons.  First and foremost, I do not own a pink T-shirt.  I realize that I probably could have purchased one from work as they really seem to embrace all these causes and alike.  I don't understand all of them and often choose not to participate and at risk of sounding like an asshole, I chose not to participate in this display of solidarity, either.

The second reason I chose not to participate in this endeavour, today, is the fact that I don't see bullying as all that bad.  Before you start throwing hate my way, please know that I do not endorse bullying either.  I just feel that it has it's place in our society and when used properly, it can be beneficial to both parties. 

"How am I a better person for having been bullied?" you ask.  Well...  I, for one, would never have turned out to be the incredible person that I am today, had I not been bullied relentlessly as a kid.  I was bullied by older kids at school.  I was a small kid, so the bigger kids my own age would pick on me, too.  Not to mention my home life, at times (most times) was kinda shitty, being bullied by an alcoholic father.  As well as, just strangers.  They see a small kid and they're going to victimize that kid.  It's natural selection.  Was it all bad?  I guess at the time it was quite devastating.  Especially from my dad, but in retrospect, I can see where I was kind of a f*ck up in his eyes.  That aside, I learned from being picked on and bullied. I used that mental and physical anguish as fuel to shape who I would eventually become.

IF, I had gone through my years without the bullying and lived a sheltered life like the kids today do, who knows what kind of an asshole I may have become?  I admit that, yes, I am somewhat of an asshole, today, but dialed down because of being humbled by bullies my whole life.  I'd be unbearable if I had been sheltered and coddled like the kids today.

Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on how you view it, I did not have social media as a kid, so I cannot speak with any degree of authority on the perils of being bullied nonstop, 24/7, via Facebook, Twitter and the Tik Tok.  Hell, as an adult, I get hammered on by idiots, usually uneducated idiots, so I consider the source, but it's an experience that, doesn't bother me in the sense that it offends me, but it's just a pain in the ass to have to educate these morons.  Does that make me a bully for calling them idiots?  Not when regarding the hateful shit I endure sometimes. 

So, I guess perhaps, initiatives are helpful for those too soft to accept their bullying as a tool to better themselves, is warranted.  People, these days, aren't as strong, mentally, as they once were.  Not everyone, especially today's youth, can appreciate the forest for the trees.

I was bullied heavy, when I was a kid.  I remember entering the ninth grade and a twelfth grader would just bully me relentlessly and would not let up, even when his buddy would tell him to stop, he wouldn't.  I was a pipsqueak when I entered high school and this guy didn't like that I was so small.  All these years later, I imagine I would tower over that asshole, today.  He'd be whistling another tune, that's for sure.  But I digress.

I stated above that bullying is beneficial to both parties.  On one hand, the bully gets to do something they enjoy and that's something we all want in our lives.  The person being bullied, gets to learn about their shortcomings and what to work on to better themselves.  Then later in life, when the bullied person is rich and successful, they can gloat over the bully when they're pumping gas or whatever dead end job they wound up doing.  Bullies often piss their lives away, but also, in some rare cases, a bullied person can snap and beat the ever-lovin' shit out of the bully, then everyone wins.  Except maybe the bully, but...  Blah blah blah, something about broken eggs.

Does Mom Chew Your Food?

An advertisement played on the radio this afternoon.  The local soccer association is trying to drum up interest in kids joining a soccer league.  The announcer in the ad spoke of professionals who will teach your kids on how to play soccer.  I thought to myself, "Jeez.  How stupid are your kids that they can't figure out how soccer is played?  Does your mom chew your food for you, too?" 😂 

Here's a ball.  There's a field.  Now run and kick that spotted ball that way (👉 indicate which end of the field is the opponents goal.)  Kick the ball into that obnoxiously oversized goal.  Repeat.  "You can touch the ball however you like, just not with your hands.  You can lick the ball for all I care, just don't lay a hand on it."

Soccer really is a stupid game.  Based solely on it's simplicity.  Run. Kick. Run some more.  And what's up with that damned net?  It's the size of a barn, yet the scores are so god damned low.  I reckon it's the size of the field.  They run and run and run, up and down that enormous field.  I imagine the scores are so low, because everyone is tuckered the f*ck out.  I betcha that the goals were human sized, once upon a time, but the field was SO BIG, that no one was scoring at all.  So instead of making the field smaller, the genius' made the goal net BIGGER and still the f*cking scores are miniscule.

Only thing worse than the game of soccer, are the fans.  NOT all of them.  There's bound to be some normals among the bunch.  I'm talking about the sociopaths who go ape shit out of team loyalty.  I believe when I was a kid, I heard a story about some Brazilian player who f*cked up and the fans went to his house, drug him outside and murdered him.  What the f*ck?  That's f*cking insane.  That's like if I wore a Saskatchewan Roughrider jersey and someone came up to me wearing a Winnipeg Blue Bomber shirt, then they f*cking murdered me.

I wrote a blog many many years ago, on another platform, I believe, where I addressed the stupidness of soccer, citing how this tribe in Africa really wanted to play the game of soccer, but couldn't afford the equipment (the ball).  So they formed their own soccer balls out of dried manure.  It was quite a sight, watching a video of these young African teens running, chasing and kicking these dried shitballs. 😂 I laughed, commenting, "See?  Further proof that soccer is a shit-game."

If I'm not mistaken, somehow I got a lot of soccer-related web accounts (FB, Twitter, etc.) tagging me and following me.  Had to block them all, because... Well.  It's soccer. 🤨

You Be You, Boo! You Be You!

I glanced at a news article, this morning, that entered my timeline on either Facebook or Twitter.  Whichever the case, it was about an Aussie mother that was complaining about her daughter's teachers abbreviating her daughter's name because it was too difficult to pronounce in it's entirety.  Even written out phonetically, I had no idea how to pronounce it, myself, and I'm pretty good at doing that, if you don't mind me tooting my own horn -- toot toot!!

In the article, it also mentioned that the daughter felt embarrassed about being called the abbreviated name, according to the mother, but I surmised in the comments that the daughter was probably, more likely to be ashamed because her parents were f**king morons and couldn't give her a normal name like Mary or Sharon, but some hippy nonsensical name that can't be spelled, much less pronounced by the masses.

I shared it on my Facebook, as I do with many of the stupid shit I discover on social media.  It got me thinking about names.  My name is Jeff or Jeffrey, a name I detest.  Also a name placed upon me by my late father.  I'm not certain as to why, exactly, but my mom claims that she wanted to name me Jason, but was overruled by my dad who wanted Jeffrey.  Named after a fella he knew, I think, but I can't recall.  What I do know is, I f**king hate the name and I've never met anyone with the name Jeff or Jeffrey, who actually liked the name.

I would have much preferred being named Jason.  It's such a cool name and you can abbreviate in a couple different ways to still make it sound cool.  Jay or Jase are two cool derivatives of the name Jason that still make the named coolness.  Plus, any Jason I've ever met, seems pretty frickin' cool.  I used to work with one, in particular, who if you don't mind me ripping off a line from Ferris Bueller's Day Off:  He's a righteous dude.  Plus, you have all those cool actors, named Jason: Jason Statham, Jason Lee, Jason Voorhees.  Can't go wrong with the name Jason. Ya can't do f*ck all with Jeffrey.  There's Jeff, which sounds very much like a cat sneezing.  You watch!!  Next time your feline friend has a sneezing frenzy, you listen.  Guaranteed, you'll hear my name.  Jeff!  Jeff!   JEFF!! 

I recall the Rob Lowe movie, Youngblood.  A hockey movie that he starred in with his fellow co-star from The Outsiders, Patrick Swayze.  Cool f**kin' movie, but I was quite taken with the name Youngblood.  I often thought that the name would spice up the Jeffrey name.  Jeffrey A. Youngblood.  Alas, I never changed my name, for obvious reasons.  I never wanted to dishonour my father or my granddad or great-granddads memories.  Still a cool f*ckin' name, though.

Over the years, I've come to accept my fate.  Using Jeffrey A. Richards as my go-to professional name.   If I'd followed through with the film school, like I'd initially planned, that's the name I would have gone with, but I failed to follow that dream and instead slid into a pit of mediocrity.  Now I'm just plain Jeff Richards.  A plethora of people too god damned ignorant or stupid to spell my name correctly, so I've discarded it completely.

That little girl in Australia, whose name is impossible to pronounce, may stick with the abbreviated terminology, quite to her mother's chagrin.  Or perhaps, she'll discard it completely and call herself something completely different.  Like the popular singer from the 1970s, Engelbert Humperdinck. Born Arnold George Dorsey, the popular crooner, chose to become Engelbert Humperdinck.  What the f*ck?!?  However, as f*cked up as that is, he chose his own path, his own name and achieved much success in doing so, although I couldn't for the life of me, name any of his songs.  Point is, we needn't be tied down by the names our parents saddled us with.  Life is freedom.  Freedom to be who or what you wanna be.  Whatever makes you happy in this life. 
I like to say: You be you, boo!  You be you! 

This Is Us

When I bought my house, now fourteen years ago, my plan was to get myself a housemate almost immediately.  I went out to all the popular pet stores at the time and got everything I thought I'd need for the big day.  I got this nifty litter box that would eliminate the need to manually scoop, by sifting the sand through a series of mesh pans.  I got all the dishes and a place mat and the whole nine yards.  Then I procrastinated.  I never sought out a cat for a couple of years.  I don't know why, but perhaps it was fate.

I'd gone through some personal turmoil and finally in 2010, I thought, this is the right time and during a break at work, I visited the SPCA's website to look at the creatures they had onsite.  The first cat I saw, was a little guy named 'Sprout'.  He was adorable, so that night I set out to go to the SPCA to see Sprout.

Sprout was a cute energetic little fellow, but when we went to the isolation room to get acquainted, Sprout had no interest in me and lurked all about, ignoring me completely, as if I weren't even in the room.  So I took Sprout back to his cage and tried another cat, Perry.  Perry was an orange tabby and about three times the size of Sprout.  In his cage, he was lively and quite a character.  He reminded me of Norman, my sister's cat, who went to live with my mom after my sister's divorce.  Norman was a cool cat and Perry seemed to match that personality, but once more, in the isolation room, Perry had no interest in me, opting instead to search for a means of escape.  Back to the cage for him.

Next was a smoky grey cat.  I can't recall it's name, but when we got into the isolation room, it remained at my side and I got to play with him and have a nice little visit.  I thought this.  This little guy will be my cat and I returned him to his cage, informing the folks at the desk that I'd be back the next day, a Friday, to pick up my new cat.

All day Friday, at work, I kept going back to the SPCA website to look at the cats, but it was 'Sprout' who I continued to stare at.  Sprout had a unique face.  A black and grey tabby with a white patch on his face that mimicked a face mask that extended from just above his nose down under his chin.  Though he had completely ignored me when we were in the visitation room, I knew I could break through that tough exterior and we'd be best of friends.  So immediately after work, I raced to the SPCA and told them that I was there to adopt Sprout.  That's when they gave me the shattering news that he was already spoken for.  He was being adopted by two college girls who were coming later that day to pick him up.  I was shattered.  Even now, as I write this, I'm welling up.

Seeing how devastated I appeared to them, the lady behind the desk told me, that if they didn't pick him up by 7pm that night, that she'd give me a call and I could adopt him.  This news gave me hope.  'There's no way two college girls are going to pick up a kitten on a Friday night instead of going out to the bar to get drunk and stupid', I thought to myself, handing over my phone number.  Sure enough, at 7:30pm, I received a telephone call informing me that the original adopters failed to show up and if I still wanted Sprout, that he was mine.  I graciously said 'yes' and early the next morning, I raced across town to pick up my little guy.

We placed Sprout, now renamed "Monkey" into the newly purchased carrier and we departed.  Monkey was quite vocal all the way home.  Rightfully so, he was plucked from the safety of his own little apartment and was now riding in a new container that smelled rich with plastic and vinyl, destined for the unknown.

When we arrived at home, I placed the carrier in the front room and unzipped it.  I never attempted to retrieve the little kitten, leaving him, instead to get acclimated to his new environment.  I took the fast food that I'd purchased on our way home with me downstairs and clicked on the TV.

Throughout the next thirty minutes or so, I could hear some rustling upstairs and some little squeaky meows, but no sign of the cat.  Then at one point, there he was, at the top of the stairs staring down at me.  I said nothing and he'd disappear.  Returning he'd come a little closer, then turn and run.  He did this a number of times, growing more brave each time.  Then he'd get poofy.  The hair on his back rose and his tail was tremendously large for a cat so small.  He'd then turn sideways, making himself appear larger than he was and he'd charge at me, then turn and run.  He did this over and over for the next twenty minutes or so, before finally hopping up on the chair and giving me a few sniffs.  I think he felt like I was okay and that's when the trust first began.

I've mentioned a lot about my TBI and the loss of most of my memories.  I can't remember most of my childhood or the years since then.  One memory that I am so relieved that I can still recall, are these first moments with Monkey.  He had finally accepted me as his 'daddy' and he climbed up on my chest, as I sat back in the chair, and curled up, just under my chin and went to sleep.  We both had a nap at that time, as father and son.

I wish I had more pictures available of Monkey at this age, but sadly they're all on the various cellphones that I've had over the years and aren't available (at this time) until I find the right cables to transfer them onto my computer.  All I have are these three individual photos taken by my mom at her house.

The next while was a learning curve for us both, Monkey and I.  He'd constantly get into mischief as young cats tend to do.  I had to repeatedly scold him when he'd get behind the TV and chew on the cables.  He used to climb up under my bed and get stuck in the void between the box spring and the frame of the bed, forcing me to pull the bed apart to rescue him.  One night, he drove me completely insane, getting stuck in there a total of three, maybe four times.  This prompted me to place everything that could fit under my bed to block his attempts to get in there, and everything has remained there ever since.  He's now ten times bigger than he was when he came to live with me, but I know if given the opportunity, he'd wriggle himself up there again and call for me to rescue him.

For most of his years here, I've given him his own freedom to what he wanted.  My backyard presented some problems, though.  The fence was complete shit.  Rotted out 2x4s caused fence boards to fall out.  Gaps at the bottom lead into the neighbours yard, so allowing complete freedom meant Monkey had to don a harness then have a tether attached to him.  While he had "complete freedom" outside, that freedom was reduced to a small radius around a corkscrew spike in the yard, strategically placed so Monkey could hang out under one of the bushes in the backyard.  This was troublesome only in the fact that Monkey constantly got tangled up and I'd hear him wailing for help.  Later on, I would attach a couple eye screws into my deck and the shed in the corner of the yard and run a "clothesline" across and attach 12 feet of line for him.  Now Monkey could wander the width of the yard, just short of getting through the gap into the neighbours yard.

Finally, a couple years ago, after a decade of watching the fence continually deteriorate, the neighbour and I had a new fence installed and after so many years of dragging the leash around and getting tangled, Monkey had true freedom to roam the yard.  Nowadays, at least three times a day, like a diligent security guard, Monkey will walk the grounds and piss on everything to ensure that everyone knows that this is HIS yard!

I have no regrets about anything to do with Monkey except maybe introducing him to a small stream out of the bathroom sink as, to this day, he insists that I turn on the tap so he can drink.  He still has his dish, but he prefers it straight from the source.  Often times, he will nearly trip me going up the stairs, racing me to the bathroom so he'll be ready for me to turn on the tap.  Another bother that I regret is buying the weeble for him.  It's a toy that wobbles with treats inside. Ideally, a cat is supposed to knock the toy with his foot to knock out treats.  It's supposed to engage the cat and make them think, which it did for the first week or so, then Monkey got wise.  At first, he'd knock the shit out of it, forcing two or three treats to come tumbling out, but then he got lazy and for the last five years, he simply cocks his head to the side and scoops the treats out with his tongue.  I think this practice has caused some damage to his shoulders which will likely get arthritic in his old age.  Even now, he walks with some labour, but I can't take the toy away from him.  Whenever I've tried, he just whimpers and won't eat.

I remember the first time Monkey ever saw snow.  He raced from the front of the house to the back, as the snow fell.  He was like Chicken Little running about, yelling "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!"  It was hilarious.  In later years, he'd accept the snow, and hate it as much as his daddy does.

A month later would be Christmas.  Normally, at the time, if I left any room, he'd accompany me, but on Christmas Eve, he remained in bed, while I snuck downstairs and into the garage, where I had this new addition to the household.  I placed it in the front room and returned to bed.  Christmas morning, we came downstairs and he glanced to the right, then turned left to head into the kitchen.  He stopped dead in his tracks, realizing that something was different, turned and went to investigate.  I raced back upstairs to grab a camera, but in the three seconds I was gone, he'd already managed to tear off the feather that hung below the apparatus and there were feather's strewn everywhere.  A huge mess, but this remains one of his favourite "toys" despite the base being void of its carpet and the wood severely carved up.

Forever, it seemed like we did everything together, which includes watching wrestling.  You may think it's only me watching while he sleeps beside me, which does happen, but he also enjoys watching the action unfold in the ring.  His favourite wrestler is A.J. Styles and if a match begins and Monkey isn't present, he gets audibly upset with me that I didn't tell him A.J. was wrestling.

He's a smart cat.  Very smart, except when he vomits.  I believe he thinks it's helpful if he avoids the linoleum, opting instead to toss up on the carpet.  Now the carpet looks like a faded Dalmatian.  Later in his years, he's come to realize that this bothers me, so he's taken it upon himself to hide the evidence.  He does this by either pulling a flyer over the spot or he'll pull a corner of a rug over the blemish or one time he removed a dish towel, normally slung through the handle of the oven and pulled it into the front room to cover his mess.  I can't be upset with a cat that is that intelligent.

Monkey is a very smart cat, that I can guarantee, but he does have his quirks.  He doesn't like having his picture taken.  I see photos on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram where cats are all posing nicely for photos, but Monkey's reaction is like that of a primitive tribe in the jungles of Peru, who believe their soul is being stolen with every click of the camera.  That's why a majority of my photographs are of Monkey while he's asleep.  Although, looking at these two gems, which are among my most favourite pics, he is quite animated when asleep.

This blog is really dragging on, but I can't gush over this little fella enough.  I've had some really tough goes of it in my shitty life.  Years ago, when I got fired from a job, I turned to the comedy of Christopher Titus, who remains one of my favourite comedians.  His life was tough too and he taught me to stick to my guns, so-to-speak, 

and weather the storm.  Another time, I had an accident at work that resulted in my breaking my back in three places.  The accident also caused me to break four and a half teeth in my mouth, all of which require extraction and I was horrendously ashamed, but a similar thing happened to Bert Kreischer when he was just a kid and he muscled his way through it, which gave me the courage to do the same.  Bert is one of my most favourite people on the planet and though he's been rude to me any time I've interacted with him on Twitter, I still love and respect the guy.  Everything else shitty in my life, I know I'll be alright because I have this fuzzy little face looking up at me, with nothing but love in his eyes.

Everyday, I look at Monkey and I tell him "I love you too much."  I believe this statement is accurate.  He's getting up in age.  He just celebrated his twelfth birthday yesterday and I realize that though he is still my baby boy, he's in the twilight stage of his life.  I may not have many more birthday's to celebrate with my little boy and the thought of coming home to an empty house, truly breaks my heart. 💔  During a recent bout of anxiety and depression, I seriously considered suicide for the first time.  Not today, but one day when Monkey is no longer here, I don't know how I will survive.  No comedians joke will be able to pull me through that funk.  But alas, there is some hope.  I've been seeing online, as of late, that there are cats out there that are living well beyond what was normally considered a normal lifetime.  Norman, who I mentioned earlier, lived to be eighteen years old.  Another cat I saw online, lived to be twenty-three years old.  Recently, I read of another cat who'd just passed away at the age of twenty-eight.  Can you believe that?  I'd happily clean up Monkey's vomit for another sixteen years.  By that time, it'd be both our time to die naturally.

When I had announced to the world that I'd gotten a cat, I said, "I call him my son and he calls me daddy."  I've never said that I owned him or really said that he's my cat.  I've always referred to him as "my boy" or "my son", both of which confused a former workmate, who assumed that my boy was a human child, whom I left at home alone while I worked the nightshift.  "Where's your sons mother?" he asked once, to which I replied, "I don't know.  I assume she's living on a farm somewhere."  I never did fess up that my boy was of the feline variety.

Monkey is a big dude.  Ten or twelve times the size he was that very first day when he curled up on my chest for a nap.  I love everything about this kid, especially that little pink nose. 🥰  This is us.  Two peas in a pod, never to part.  He will always be my number one.  He will always be my best friend.  He will always... Always, be my little boy.

Best Mates

 

Happened to wake up early to hear my favourite morning radio duo discussing, of all things, favourite condiments.  Clayton confessed that he doesn't like ketchup or mustard, and as much as it shouldn't bother me, I was genuinely concerned.  So much so, I took to Twitter, my preferred mode of communication with the world, and tweeted into the radio station asking "who hurt him"? 😁

Truth be known, I've met quite a few people who hate the popular duo, Ketchup and Mustard.  I have one friend who actually complained to BK when he bought a burger and it automatically came with dabs of ketchup and mustard.  As if this was unexpected.  At best, one can assume that a burger of any sort will likely come with one or both of the condiments.

I like ketchup and mustard, but for reasons other than what most would expect.  I've made the claim for, what can be estimated as, decades, that ketchup is the perfect condiment, because no matter how bad something tastes, if you add enough ketchup, it'll taste better.  Case and point: Burger King's Black Burger.

I've never actually tasted the mysterious burger, not for a lack of trying.  When I requested it from my local BK, they cocked their head to the side, like a confused mutt, and had no clue what the heck I was talking about.  That being said, if the burger did actually taste horrible, ketchup would be the hero, swooping in like Spider-Man in the nick of time, to save the meal.

When it comes to condiments, I'm kinda particular.  In my house, you'll never see a bottle of Heinz ketchup. I don't particularly care for the taste of it. Too salty.  French's is my go-to, as is the mustard, only I lean more towards the Sweet Onion flavoured mustard.  I also like adding mayonnaise to my burgers and dogs.  Any mayo is good, but Heinz's Seriously Good Mayonnaise isn't just a marketing ploy. It actually tastes damn good. 😋

I realize that this statement may strike up another popular debate: What are acceptable condiments to add to a hotdog?  It's been my experience that most people frown on and absolutely reject ketchup being added to a dog.  I march to the beat of a different drum, as I not only add both ketchup and mustard to my hotdogs, but I also like to slather a layer of mayo on my bun, too.  Again, because it's not always known what ingredients are in the wiener.  One time, as a kid, I bit into a hotdog and my bite was interrupted by a knuckle.  No lie.  It was a piece of cartilage and as a result, I avoided eating hotdogs until later in my adult life.  Ketchup can cover the disgusting taste of a lot of things, but even Superman, himself, couldn't have saved that hotdog. 😣

In researching this blog, this morning, I came across a blurb from NBC News about a Florida Bistro who outright refuses it's patrons the option of having ketchup on their food.  "Anyone above the age of ten, won't get any ketchup on their food."  Not even on a side of french fries, the article read.  Patrons of the bistro, put absolute faith in the food preppers and accept the ban.  That says to me that they think kids under the age of ten aren't smart enough to know that ketchup is disgusting, but then again, if you look at the state of education in Florida, the state doesn't even believe in actual science, either, so their credibility has no bearing on anything.

I enjoy listening to the All Fantasy Everything Podcast hosted by Late Late Show writer and comedian, Ian Karmel.  I believe he and his friends/guests did a Fantasy Draft early on in the podcast, on condiments.  Wanting to participate in the fun, I always make my own draft, sharing it with them via Twitter and Facebook.  I know that I did one up, but I can't remember what my list of condiments were.  However, if put on the spot today, I think my choices would be as follows.

1. Ketchup
2. Mustard
3. Baconnaise (bacon-flavoured mayo)
4. Smoked Applewood Bourbon BBQ sauce
5. Bacon (you can never have too much bacon)

This is a debate that will go on for ever, much like the argument about whether or not a hotdog is a sandwich.  FYI, it's not.  It just isn't. Sorry-not-sorry, but that's a subject for another day.  Today I'm going to leave you with this final thought.  I recently saw this on TV.  It may have been spotlighted on Colbert, I can't remember, but the sandwich looks absolutely amazing and I doubt with all my heart that it would require any outside influence by ketchup or superhero.

Ladies and gentleman.  Allow me to introduce you to the Hotdog Burger.  Near as I can tell, it's one pound of seasoned hamburger placed on a double-long hotdog bun, with two slices of cheese (although I think I'd add two more).  It's probably a train wreck to eat, but I'm up to the challenge.  Who's with me?

Penis Butter

 I love Twitter.  I won't lie.  I absolutely love Twitter.  In the beginning, it was described to me as a way for people to share what they're doing with the world.  I thought it was stupid.  Most of my friends and family couldn't care less about what I might have going on in my life, but I would eventually join and my posts rapidly progressed from what I was up to to eventually injecting my thoughts on a variety of subjects.  People still didn't give two shits about what I was doing or saying, but I enjoyed the process, nevertheless.

Eventually, people would clamp onto my words, some positive, but as we all know the interwebs, people seem to grow enlarged testicles and begin quarrelling or trolling me.  I'd fight with some of them, but mostly I'd ignore the ignorance.  One thing about Twitter that I will never change is, I won't say anything to anyone that I'm not prepared to back up.  I do my due diligence on researching, to the best of my ability, the subject that I'm defending.  One of my fondest memories of combating a troll on Twitter, was a tag-team effort between HGTV star, Bryan Baeumler (pronounced "Bomb-ler") and a fella that was adamant about tearing down a Good Samaritan in the Greater-Toronto area.  It was me and Baeumler going back and forth on this individual who was belligerent towards the both of us, despite Baeumler's celebrity.  I'd eventually start calling the man "Arm Chair", referring to the fact that he sat back, dishing out judgement, without ever making an effort to make changes of his own.  I knew Baeumler was on my side, when he, too, began referring to this angry individual as Arm Chair. 😆

I'm currently Twitter friends with a number of celebrities, including some professional wrestlers, but sadly, I've been blocked by a few, too.  I'm not sure as to why, exactly, but I'm sure it had something to do with other people bashing them, then when I attempted to stick up or defend them, they just blocked everyone.  When I discovered that A.J. Styles and Frankie Kazarian were amongst those who have blocked me, I was devastated.  When I learned that Hulk Hogan had blocked me back when I was defending statements that he'd made were taken out of context, he also blocked me.  That one pissed me off and my admiration for him diminished rather quickly after that.

I've also been blocked by a few companies, too.  I've managed to receive some promotional items from recognized companies, like Carl's Jr., who sent me a $40 gift card for promoting their burgers online; from Sunbeam I received a NEW toaster when I complained about the one I'd bought; as well as another company, who sent me a T-shirt and some other knick-knacks when I suggested an improvement to one of their products.  As I'd stated above, I've been blocked by a couple as well.  SGI (Saskatchewan Government Insurance) who blocked me for scolding a fella who argued that people should be able to leave their car's unlocked in their driveway, while warming the vehicle up in winter.  In a perfect world, I'd say "Sure." However, the world is far from perfect and if you leave you're car running, unattended, in your driveway and someone steals your vehicle, then I argued that you deserved to get your shit stolen.  That man got horribly graphic and used all kinds of foul language in attacking me.  Eventually it would stop, as SGI, addressed me, defending his logic, rather than mine, then they blocked me. 🚫

Another company, also the main subject of this blog post, is Walmart-Canada.  I've had a lot (a LOT) of issues with Walmart over the years.  Mostly for their pricing inconsistencies.  To this day, I'm left scratching my head over some...  No!  MOST of what Walmart does.  My issue came one day when I was purchasing some frozen French fries.  One bag was straight cut, while another bag, of equal size, but crinkle cut, was nearly twice the price.  When asked, floor clerks, if they understood my query at all, would return a blank look and a shrug of the shoulders, before turning and walking away.  That's when I went to Twitter and asked Walmart Canada, why the crinkle cut cost more.  They returned an answer that "it was more difficult to produce the crinkle cut fries."  This answer was as stupid as it was illogical and I told them as much, adding "It's not like there's someone who manually cuts each wedge out of the individual fries."  That's when they blocked me.

Many occasions have arisen in the years that have followed and I'm unable to contact Walmart Canada on any of these issues.  Most notably, and the inspiration for this edition of my Brain Matter blog, again refers to the frozen food aisle at the Preston Crossing location of Walmart, which incidentally, is also the worst Walmart in the city.  (Ask anyone and they'll tell ya!)

I bought the 5kg bag of crinkle cut French fries.  $3.97 is the price, while the straight cut fries, also in the 5kg bag is priced at $6.28  Same size, same Walmart brand, yet two completely different prices.  Instead of consulting Twitter, like I habitually do, I asked a clerk who was working in the area.  

I asked her WHY was the two packages of (virtually) the same product, so wildly priced apart.  She just smiled, blank-faced, I knew immediately that English was not her first language, nor did she have any sort of understanding of what I'd just asked her.  I repeated myself, to which she smiled and said, "I like Penis Butter."

"I'm sorry?" I said, asking her to clarify.

"I like Penis Butter.  I buy one jar of Penis Butter.  It cost six dollar twenty-seven cent, and I can get two jar of Penis Butter for ten dollar."

"Oh!" I replied, understanding that she was referring to Peanut Butter, not some sort of sexual aid, although her English was SO broken, that maybe she was referring to dick butter, but I doubt it.  Doesn't seem like something you'd mention to an unwitting customer.

Long story short, no conclusion as to why Walmart charges an extra couple of bucks for identical products.  Then again, if you go to the DVD section, you'll see two box sets of identical shows for two different prices.  I've purchased many videos from Walmart, for the lesser of two prices.  They don't like it, but maybe they ought to concentrate on being less stupid.  Hell, the prices at the Preston Crossing location differ from the other two locations in the city.  Cat treats at the other two are 3 for $6, while at Preston Crossing, they're $2.78 each. 🤔Makes me wonder what they charge for Penis Butter..?

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.

Weight Loss Starts With 'P'

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

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

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

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

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

Lowered Expectations

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Winky's Big Day Out

After much concern regarding a health issue, I finally consulted my doctor. Given that it dealt with such a personal subject, I'd been hesitant up to that point to mention anything, but on that day, I finally decided I'd had enough.

The doctor ran a couple tests in house and decided that it wasn't anything associated with my having Type II diabetes.  I breathed a sigh of relief on that point, however I wondered what exactly was the cause of my problem.  A few more tests were ordered up by my physician and on my way I went.

A couple days later I retrieved an official looking letter from my mailbox.  Typed on letterhead from the Saskatchewan College of Physicians, the note informed me that I was to attend an ultrasound appointment, followed up by a Cystoscopy a couple weeks following that.  I've had many ultrasounds over the years for a plethora of injuries I've sustained.  I knew there was nothing to fret about in regards to that, but by name alone, Cystoscopy sounded invasive and complex.  I read on in the letter, which vaguely described the nature of that test.  Thank the heaven's for Google, as I looked up the definition of Cystoscopy and was horrified by what I learned.  Long story short, the doctor freezes my downstairs area then shoves a camera in through my pee-pee.  Ho-ly-f*******ck!

So for a few weeks I had that to look forward to, even going so far as sharing on Twitter that while people would be outside enjoying the hot summer weather, your's truly was going to be in the hospital, legs up in the stirrups and a camera being raked through me like a piston hammering through the cylinder of a small block Chevy.

Today was the big day.  I swallowed my pride and all my fears.  There was nothing I could do now, but to face the music and deal with this adversity like I do every other roadblock in life.  In fact, while I sat "commando" in the waiting room, a thin cotton fabric being the only thing separating "me" from the menagerie of odd looking persons in the room with me, I noted a parade of attractive nurses strolling past.  "I wonder if one of them is my nurse." I thought to myself, then realizing how embarrassing it would be, them eyeballing me in my state of vulnerability, or worse, my rising to the occasion.  It might be flattering, on some level, but highly inappropriate and embarrassing.

Soon I heard my name being called.  The nurse introduced himself as Emanuelle.  A him, I thought, this was going to be less embarrassing.  Emanuelle appeared to be an African transplant.  His accent was thick and I had him repeat his name, as I failed to catch it the first time.  He had long hair that was twisted into thin dreadlocks and it was tied back and spilling out from under his nurses cap.  It was at this precise moment I realized that I was going to have to write a blog about this.

Mere seconds ago, I was worried about popping wood in front of my nurse, and now I see my nurse is actually a young virile man.  A strapping young fella. An African-American young fellow and immediately my thoughts went to the stereotypes of young African-Americans and the incredible girth that they sport, "down there".   Although he is likely very professional in his application of medicine, this dude is likely going to snicker when he sees my insignificant appendage.  I know the comparison goes without saying, but it's still a bruise to the old ego.

He had me sit on the gurney to wait for the doctor's arrival, who entered the room almost immediately.  I'm relieved to see that he's of Asian decent and before any question of his fitness as a physician enters my mind, my self-consciousness wanes away believing that as insignificant as I'm going to be stacked next to the black guy, I gotta be monstrous over the Asian doctor's peanut.

I was instructed to lie back on the gurney while the nurse was going to clean and sanitize my area.  Again the thought of an uprising interrupted my usual thoughts.  Baseball, I thought.  Baseball.  The most boring sport on TV, that'll keep me "relaxed".  If I thought getting wood in the hands of the female nurse would be embarrassing, it'd go double, triple...,  a million times more embarrassing in the hands of a dude.

Next the doctor brought over the device that would he'd be doing the exploratory with.  I looked at him and said, "I don't think that's going to fit."  He smiled and assured me, "It'll fit.  Don't you worry."  This caused me to breathe heavily.  I laid back and stared at a poster on the ceiling.  It was a monkey with the caption "I've gotta learn to relax."  The nurse, Emanuelle, knelt down next to my head and pointed up at the poster and said, "Look at the monkey.  Take deep breaths and exhale through your mouth."

"Monkey?" I said, "I thought that was a mirror."  Emanuelle chuckled and patted me on the shoulder as he rose to his feet.  The procedure then began.  The freezing went in and ironically burned like a roman candle.  It felt like hot lava being pouring into me, a single droplet at a time.  The scorching sensation soon dissipated, but not for long.

What I initially believed would be equated to shards of broken glass being etched into my wiener, via the Google explanation, the discomfort associated with the procedure wasn't quite as violent or painful, but it wasn't a joyous experience either.

After all was said and done, the doctor informed me that everything checked out.  My bladder and all points in between checked out and appeared healthy.  I can now breathe another heavy sigh of relief, but can't help but wonder what the cause of my issues are.  The doctor suggested watching my diet.  Yay..!  A diet already limited by allergies, could soon become even more concentrated.  Pretty soon, I'll be sucking nutrients out of a f**king tube, like the astronauts do.

I sat down on the toilet, following the exam, and tried to urinate.  The freezing had really taken hold, I couldn't feel anything except something that felt like rusty razor blades.  I tried repeatedly, but believe that I'd failed.  I got up and looked into the bowl.  Something came out, to my surprise.  I hope I don't have any "accidents" on the way home, I thought.

The Batmen

Earlier tonight, was the Floyd Mayweather/Pacquiao fight in Las Vegas, Nevada.  The much talked about fight that has filled the public airwaves for weeks upon weeks.  It was touted as the biggest match of the century.  I don't know if that last statement was true or not, but I must admit that it's the first sign that professional boxing still lives, as far as I'm concerned.  I know very little about the two men facing off against one another.  I recall Manny Pacquiao faced off and demolished comedian, Daniel Tosh in a fight that rivaled the intensity of the legendary Butterbean/Johnny Knoxville fight.  As for Mayweather, I remember him from Wrestlemania XXIV where he knocked out the Big Show with a right hook, clad with brass knuckles.  Between that and his repeated arrests for beating women, I had my fingers crossed that he'd get beaten like a government mule.

Whomever was the chosen favourite by the masses, everyone had an opinion and offered them readily via social media.  I love the immediacy that Twitter and alike provide to us, the common folk.  Other information provided about the event tonight, was thousands of looky-loos reporting who they saw in the crowd.  The likes of Justin Bieber, 50 Cent, Beyonce and Jay-Z were spotted looking on, just to name a few.  The names that caught my eye, however were those who are best known for their portrayal of the Caped Crusader, Batman.

In one tweet, the author admitted to popping out of her seat when she noticed, Michael Keaton, Christian Bale, Ben Affleck and even Adam West, all peppered throughout the Las Vegas crowd in attendance.  I thought for a second, they forgot Val Kilmer and George Clooney.  Then I paused for a moment, realizing...  We would ALL like to forget about Val Kilmer and George Clooney, as far as their failed attempts at portraying the Dark Knight.

I never heard a whole lot about the fight.  Some people posted ten second videos of the action, but it wasn't enough to get a real feel of what was happening.  Even those who'd promised to tweet a play-by-play of the action in the ring, must've been so overwhelmed by what was going on that they simply forgot to do so.  Then again, at a $99 cost for the Pay-Per-View, I wouldn't waste my time burying my nose in my smart phone, rather than focusing on the television.  From the few tweets that I did read, it sounded like Pacquiao was giving Mayweather a thorough beating.  This is why I was shocked when I read about the outcome... SPOILER ALERT, apparently that piece of shit Mayweather won the fight by unanimous decision.  This is truly disappointing.  I was hoping Mayweather would get beaten to a bloody pulp, like the Italian Stallion did at the end of Rocky.  It's written that Pacquiao was fighting with an injured shoulder, which begs the question, given how much money was on the line, wouldn't the boxing commission want both fighters to be in pique condition?  I don't know.  I don't follow this sport.

In the comics and movies, Batman often fought the bad guys like, Bane and Joker while under physical duress.  Perhaps someone should have whispered in Manny's ear and reminded him that he is the PacMan, not the Batman. 

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.