Broken

I ventured out this morning headed to the nearby Wal-Mart.  Amongst my travels inside, I made my way over to the Electronics Department, as I often do.  It's like an instinctual path I take when I come to the Preston Crossing location.  Each store has it's unique route, but this one always takes me in the North entrance, where I then circle around past the self-checkouts, before hanging a right to head down the center aisle.  This brings me to the junction where it's a left turn to electronics and a right hand turn to the pet supplies.

I have no interest, really, in the electronics department, other than finding a movie or TV series on DVD for a reasonable price to add to my collection.  Today I found no such deals, but I did happen across a young lad with his mother.  They were getting assistance from the clerk who was removing a Nintendo video game from the locked case.  The look of jubilation on the little boys face, was priceless.  Even the mom, who was attempting to ease his excitement, shared that look of joy.  She'd probably worked hard for the money to purchase this game for her son.

The scenario reminded me of the documentary I watched last night, "Count Me In".  A doc about drumming, percussion and what inspired these musicians to embrace what it is to be a drummer.  The documentary included some rare home videos of these, now grown professional musicians, receiving their first drum kits as, in some cases, toddlers.  One girl, in particular, was so overjoyed when she unwrapped her kit, that she fell into the box, sobbing with tears of happiness on a level like I've never witnessed in my life.  A moment so precious, that it brought tears to my eyes.  

On a personal level, I can only recall my cat, Monkey's first Christmas, where I successfully hit a cat fort in the garage on Christmas Eve.  We'd gone to bed and I got up quickly and rushed down the stairs.  I thought for sure Monkey would have followed me, as he always did so, at the time, but this night was perfect.  He stayed put on my bed.  I placed the fort next to the front entrance, where it has remained to this day, over thirteen years later.  The next morning we came downstairs and he never noticed the new furniture.  It was me who had to stop us in our tracks and vocalize, "Hey buddy.  What's that?"  I said pointing to the new addition.  The cat actually stopped, looked over and I saw an actual feline WTF moment.  I rushed upstairs to grab my phone to take pictures, but in the thirty seconds that I was gone, he'd already destroyed the feathers that hung below the fort.  There were feathers everywhere, including some smaller ones still floating in the air.  I was ecstatic that he was finding so much joy in this new experience. 😊  I love that kid.

Witnessing the joy of that boy getting a game that he's wanted for who knows how long?  Maybe it was only a few minutes or maybe it's been since Christmas?  Who knows, but the experience wasn't any less special.  Then suddenly, like a stray bullet from a drive-by, I was struck with a memory that broke my heart so much that I nearly lost it in the store.  I fought back actual tears as I recalled a time from my youth, when my mom gifted me a toy out of the blue.  The look of joy on my mom's face when I was taking the toy out of the package and began playing with it.

As stated in previous blogs, our family never had a lot of money when I was growing up.  I never sensed that we were poor and given some of the stuff I saw when I was at school, we definitely had it better than some of the other kids in my grade, but we weren't flourished.  One day, I came home from school and my mom gave me a Riddler action figure.  I already had a Batman and Robin.  Maybe a Joker, too.  I know I had a Spider-Man figure, but the Riddler was a flashy new addition.  I played with that like there was no tomorrow and the joy on my mom's face as she witnessed the glee coming from her eldest child, was incomparable, unless you consider the look I got the next day.

I was so excited about this new toy that my mom allowed me to take it to school the next day for Show & Tell.  I can't recall what I had said in the presentation, but it was enough to entice a fellow classmate to approach me about the figure.  Craig S. was a crafty young fellow, who had every toy you could imagine.  I don't know what his parents did, but it seemed like they spent a lot of their money showering their kids with more toys than any kid could play with.  Craig approached me with this flashy spacecraft toy from the TV show Buck Rogers in the 25th Century.  This kid had a way with words and somehow talked me out of my brand new Riddler figure in exchange for his Draconian Marauder.

That afternoon, I returned home and was playing with this new-to-me toy when my mother discovered me.  She asked where this toy came from, having not recognized it as one of my regular toys.  I told her that I had traded my Riddler action figure for this toy and the look of disappointment and heartbreak that overcame her face was devastating to witness.  A feeling of shame overcame me and I put the Marauder toy in my room and took it back to school the next day with hopes of trading back for my Riddler figure, but alas.  It was took late, as Craig had already bamboozled another child out of their toy for my Riddler figure.  The kid in question was a sickly boy that I was afraid to approach, at the time, and so I reluctantly kept the spaceship, but the scar of what I had done to my mother was forever.

Without much money to our credit, my mom, out of the pure goodness that lives in her heart, went out and purchased something with the hopes that her child would find joy with only to discover that her kid selfishly gave it away in exchange for a worthless space toy from a shitty TV show.

Just the knowing that I disappointed and hurt someone I care about is beyond heart wrenching and, though it was a memory previously lost, it's back in my conscious, now, and it hurts my heart every bit as much right at this moment as it did that day as I sat on the floor of our kitchen. 💔

Shit Talking

The morning was cool and moist.  I'd loaded up my truck, arranging all the packages according to town and destination.  Normally it took me about an hour to load the Ford F-450 cube van all by myself, but the task flew by relatively quickly and I sped off, ahead of schedule.  The time was close to 5am and the sun had not yet broken the seal of a new day.  I headed north, towards Prince Albert, my first stop.  The world around me at that early morn, was stranger than usual.  The humidity hung in the air, evident only by strands of fog stretching across the four lane split highway, like ribbons on a gift wrappers table.  Each appearing as eerie as it did elegant and beautiful.  It's an image that returns to my mind on those brisk spring time mornings.

I'd arrived and departed from the storage facility in Prince Albert, located at the south end of town.  I had no incident.  In and out like an international spy, racing away with secret documents.  Only I didn't have any such items in my possession.  Only half a truck full of large boxes and some car parts.  My destination was now Melfort, located about an hour to the east.  By this time, the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, shining extra brightly, piercing through my visor and blinding me, by the time I'd reached Birch Hills, SK.  It was also around this time where I began to feel a little off.

It wasn't sickness or anything alike, but it was more of an uncomfortable pressure.  I had a poop coming on.  I was confident that I could not only make it to Melfort before anything bad might occur.  The guy I met every day, was usually a few minutes late arriving when I would be there, so I thought I could make it to the Tim Horton's in well enough time.  With the lack of traffic at that time I arrived with only minutes to spare, however, as fate would have it, the guy I normally had to wait on, was already at the meeting site.  I didn't have a whole lot to hand off to him, mostly just large items, so I helped load him up, all the while fighting the pressure that was building in my downstairs region.

I was relieved when the fella departed right away, rather than engaging in the small chit-chat that he regularly partook in.  I locked up my van and began the arduous trek across the uneven broken ground between the parking area and the Timmy Ho's.  By this time, my butt cheeks were clenched so tight, that if you'd have placed a lump of coal between them, I would have produced a diamond worthy of royalty.  My travel was laborious and difficult, on account I was only able to take small steps from the knees down.

Best I could, I rushed into the donut shop and headed straight to the washroom, but...  Yes.  It was too late.  The floodgates from hell opened up, filling my brand new red boxer briefs in the process.  I had just shit myself and yes, in case you needed to ask, I did feel tremendous shame.  I could have and should have excused myself, when I had initially arrived in Melfort, but like a "tough guy" I chose not to and now I was paying dearly.

In the following weeks, I had a couple more close calls, nearly filling my red boxer briefs before locating adequate facilities.  Once, I needed to duck between lockers at the storage facility in Prince Albert.  I rested my back up against the wall and unleashed the fury.  Another time, happened in Birch Hills.  I was much more vulnerable there, opting to hide behind some large farm equipment and doing my business there.  Again, I was wearing red underwear.  I began seeing a pattern here.  Every time I wore the red under garments, I either had a terrible accident or a near-fatal accident in my shorts.  Even around town, when I'm making a quick run to the grocer, if I'm wearing red undies, I'd better stick close to a public washroom, or else.

I saw my Diabetic nurse today.  A quick meeting to try out one of these sensor things that attach to my arm so I can monitor my blood sugars more easily.  For years, the doctor requested that I do blood check with the strips and the little device, but alas, I am a diabetic and even in Canada with our awesome healthcare, diabetics still get f*cked over.  Those strips cost a LOT of money and I don't have a benefits package at my job.  Hell, if we're being completely honest, I don't even have a f*cking job at this time, but I can't afford to pay, out-of-pocket for those strips.  So I was given some of these sensor pads to try on my phone.  Equally as expensive, so I'm told, but I thought I'd give 'em a try.

Diabetic nurse helped me out, then I was on my way.  I headed to the Wal-Mart to grab some milk, bread and subsequently, some treats for my boy, Monkey.  No sooner had I filled my cart with all my items, that I felt something rumble.  I farted, but it wasn't a fart. It was more beefy than it was gaseous.  Immediately, I recalled slipping on red underwear when I got dressed this morning (TMI?🤨) and the race was on.

Like a starter pistol had fired off, I began to push my cart back across the store.  Of course this shit happens (pardon the pun😉) when I'm at the furthest point away from the public washroom.  Stepping from my knees down, once again, I arduously raced past confused onlookers and congested hubs of hanging apparel.  As the destination drew closer, I felt something tickling my butt cheek, dancing down my leg.  I thought I was losing my keys through another hole in my pocket, but when I shook my leg to free up the keys, a meatball rolled out, coming to a stop under a display of dehumidifiers.  I paused, completely shocked and disgusted by what had just happened.  I'm not as disgusting as those videos of people dropping trow and shitting in a deserted grocery aisle or that pig who squatted in front of a counter at a Tim Horton's in Ontario and took a whopping shit, despite of all the onlookers.  I had apparently shit, nothing terribly catastrophic, but equally as bad.

The situation in the bathroom was not nearly as horrific as I'd initially believed.  It was actually a quick and easy clean up.  I used a LOT of paper, mind you.  Didn't require it, but in these cases, it's better to be overindulgent than thrifty.

This is the kind of shit (again, apologies for the pun), that most people probably wouldn't or shouldn't share with anyone.  Especially my friends and peers, but whatever.  Everyone has shit themselves at some point in their adult lives.  If they claim they haven't they're probably f*cking lying.

I remember one time when my nephew was quite small.  He was just getting out of the diaper-wearing game, so accidents would happen sometimes.  I remember this one time, he shit himself and my sister went off on him.  The kid had a lot of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) and this always lead to his accidents.  He believed that something exciting might happen while he was in the bathroom.  So this one time, my sister is shitting on him for shitting on himself and the poor kid felt terrible.  He came over to where I was sitting, with tears in his eyes.  I tried to comfort the boy by admitting to him that accidents happen.  That sometimes even adults poop themselves.  My sister overheard this and ripped me a new asshole, yelling at me to stop lying to him and that I needed to tell him I was lying.  Instead, I looked her dead in the eye and asked, "Are you f*cking high?"  Everybody shits themselves.  I've done it at least twice in my adult life.

I doubt anyone will read this, which is why I feel confident in writing this blog.  Judge me or don't.  I don't don't give two shits.  If a person can't laugh at themselves, sometimes, then they're just shitheads...  There's a lot of shit talk this post.  Hmm. 🤔

Man on a Mission

In a clear panic, I rushed through the thicket of people, crowded at the front of the store.  I was on the brink of exploding in my pants.  I definitely shouldn't have had that soda pop an hour before, but we always learn something via 20/20 hindsight.  Into the bathroom, past the urinals and straight into the handicapped stall.  I like the extra space.  The seat, thankfully, was already in the upright position, so I needn't balance it on the end of my foot.  I never use my hands for ANYTHING in a public restroom, especially in a f*cking Wal-Mart.

As I unzipped my heavy jacket in preparation for the task at hand, I passively glanced into the bowl , locking my gaze on the most peculiar sight I've ever had the misfortune to see in a public toilet.  I've mulled it over in my mind for the last hour, trying desperately to configure a way to successfully translate what I saw into comprehensible language and I believe I may have it.

In using the facilities at a restaurant, mall or big box store, we've all seen the remnant of the previous user or users.  That fecal muck that sticks to the side of the bowl that no amount of rushing water can successfully wash it away.  However, what I witnessed today was significantly different.  It was of a different viscosity and texture and colour, even.  The colour was a dull grey.  Thick and pebble-like in appearance.  Similar to celery seed, it looked like tiny beads of poo, spackled on the side of the bowl, like plaque on a rotting tooth.  "Ew," I whispered to myself, nose turned up with disgust, shocked by the appearance of this alien matter, "That motherf**ker is a sick puppy."

Granted just because it looks sick as f*ck, doesn't necessarily mean the contributing personality is also terminal.  I can speak from personal experience to initial shock of looking in the toilet expecting something impressive, and instead, discovering something off-putting, gross and concerning, only to remember that I had eaten beets a few hours before.  As to what might turn someone's poop into tiny grey balls of mystery? I don't know, nor do I wish to speculate.  My only goal in writing this blog, is to simply report the shit that I see.  Well, that and I wanted to use the simile that I thought of.

Despite my initial surprise, I never allowed it to deter me.  I was on a mission, after all.  A mission to avoid peeing my pants, and god damn it, crisis averted.  Mission accomplished!!

If Stupidity is a Handicap, Then We Are Doomed!

While awaiting my turn in line at the Wal-Mart, a young mother was unloading her cart in front of me.  Accompanying her was a small child and another who was visibly older.  The eldest child was fidgety, picking at the magazines and candy in the impulse lane, finally setting her attention on a cold bottle of Coca-Cola in a nearby cooler.  "Mom." she said, trying to engage her mother.  "Mom!!  Can I have?"

The pencil-thin young woman turned to her daughter, allowing me the first real look at her.  She was a frail thing, who didn't look very old.  The eldest daughter was clearly over the age of ten, possibly entering her teens, so I speculate that she was a teen mom.  Her frame was petite as were her facial features.  The only prominence that this woman had, were a small cluster of stars tattooed over her left eye.  They appeared to be fairly fresh, although, there wasn't any redness or swelling accompanying them.

"NO!!" the young mother said sternly, shaking her finger, "You need to learn to spend your money more responsibly.  Don't waste it on frivolous things."

I smirked at what she had said.  Not that saving your money for smarter purchases is a preposterous notion, but that such sage advice would come from a person who had recently wasted money on getting stars of varying sizes tattooed on her face.

I thought nothing of it, beyond that.  I paid for my goods and ventured outside, where I met up with the able-bodied family once more.  This time they were climbing into a shitty little red Chevy Cavalier, parked in the handicapped spot nearest the door.  It is sights like this that bother me.  If you're not physically incapable of walking a few extra meters, then you shouldn't be taking up those spots.  It doesn't matter if you have the handicapped placard in your window.  If the handicapped person is not with you, don't f*cking park in the spot, because the last time I checked, stupidity wasn't considered a handicap.