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!!

No Apology Necessary

I was in need of a red marker, so after work I stopped by the Dollar Tree.  Having been there on several occasions before, I suspected they'd have what I need and they didn't disappoint.  As I scanned the aisle up and down, searching through the virtual sea of multi-coloured pens and markers, I failed to notice the small-statured tyke flanking me from the left.

He squeaked at the last moment, diverting my attention from the product hooks, down at him.  Sadly, it wasn't quick enough, as the little f*cker struck me hard in the shin with some kind of club, then scurried away around the corner.  The assault never hurt as much as the bewilderment of why a parent would, not only allow their child to run amok in a shopping venue, but also allow them to hit strangers?

"Seamus!" the mother called, with a thick Irish accent from the far end of the aisle, "Come back here at once, boy!"  I looked up at her, failing once more to hear the little bastard come up to me from behind, and strike me once more, this time on the back of my left leg, spinning me around to catch his eyeing me up for a third swing.

"Stop playing with that man and come here." his mother shouted again, never addressing the fact that her little tyrant had struck me twice and was vying for a hat trick.  "Really?"  I uttered in her direction, insinuating that we were not engaged in a game of folly, but in what could be construed as a violent exchange.

I heard a clank and looked back to see the little guy drop his golf club and reach out towards me like a hungry zombie craving fresh meat.  I flung my hands up and told him to get away from me.  I wasn't afraid of him, obviously, as I could crush him under my foot like the little pest that he was, but these days, you can't be too cautious when it comes to Stranger Danger.

Finally, grandma came and grabbed him by the arm, and drug him back to his mother's cart, leaving the small metal golf club behind.  I stared at them blankly, waiting for the apology that would never come.

If I were to be completely honest. the kid wasn't pasty and pale, nor was he named Seamus,  His family weren't of Irish decent, but actually appeared to be Middle Eastern.  The little boy was dirty and covered in filth and answered to Ahmed or something along those lines.  I don't wish to profile the family racially, but I can't help but wonder what the protocol is in that culture, where it's acceptable to assault a stranger in a store and no apologies are necessary?

Mustering Up A Shit Storm

"I shit myself!!"  Three words that no self-respecting individual would ever utter, unless, of course, it were true.  After all, why would anyone go to such lengths to lie about something so disgusting and heinous?  I guess I have no, or at the very least, very little self-respect, as I have told those three words to people and lied in doing so.

I have used this fib to get out of work, appointments and even plans with friends.  The believability in the lie is determined by how willing you are to provide graphic details.  Years ago, I was invited to a person's house to watch a movie.  There was going to be a whole bunch of people there that I didn't know and I didn't really feel like attending just to sit uncomfortably for a few hours in a cramped space.  Unfortunately, this was the kind of person that is difficult to say 'no' to.  They're always wanting a reason why.  Why?  Why?  Why?  So, as I was about to begrudgingly leave my house to go over, a light bulb shot off and I had the perfect plan.  I'd blow them off then simply tell them I had shit myself.  "They'll believe that, I'm sure," I thought to myself.

The next day I received a phone call and it was my friend on the other end.  Without even saying hello, they asked where I was and why I didn't bother coming over the night before.  "I had an accident." I said.  Before I was able to elaborate, they asked if I was okay and what had happened, speculating that someone had hit my vehicle.

"I shit myself."  I said.  There was an elongated pause, followed by a quiet, "What?"

I explained that I had been on my way to their house and while waiting at a red light, I had leaned to one side to squeak out a fart and the next thing I knew, I had nearly blown the back of my pants out with the nastiest wet fart in the history of farts.  There was another long pause, followed by a dishevelled "What?"  I took this as my cue to elaborate, stating that I had returned home to inspect Ground Zero and it wasn't a pleasant sight.

"You could've cleaned up and come over anyway." They said, not allowing something as small as a wet fart ruin the evening's festivities.  "No, I couldn't," I said, "it was really really bad."  I went on to explain how the shit had encompassed nearly all the real estate in and around my ass, some of which even mysteriously migrating around to the front.  "No." I retorted, "It was a complete obliteration.  I wound up having to throw my pants and underwear away.  Sucks, because they were a new pair of pants.  I don't think home insurance would cover a sewage backup that came out of my ass."

They totally bought the story, because like I said, no one with self-respect would ever lie about such a dramatic event, and being that the story was told over the phone, no actual evidence was ever necessary to provide.

Now I'm not saying that it hasn't ever happened.  I think everyone, at one time or another, has sharted in their pants.  Maybe nothing like the Shitanic that I just dramatized, but a little hint here or there.  This one time, I'd gotten struck with some kind of virus and diarrhea was an unfortunate factor to be dealt with.  I was running to the bathroom, literally, every seven to ten minutes.  I didn't dare gamble and break wind, for fear it was something much more evil.  I had to run to a medi-clinic to see what was afoot and get a doctor's not for work.  However, in doing so, I had to time my travels just precise enough that I wouldn't be stuck in traffic and that a washroom would be readily available.

This virus was nasty.  It got to the point where there was no more poop coming out.  It was just water... Or poop juice.  Like if someone were to squeeze a log of shit, the moisture that would run out, a veritable scorching shit juice from concentrate, that was setting my rectal area ablaze.  Every visit to the cool porcelain toilet, was met with fire shooting out my ass.  Whenever I see a flame thrower being used in an old World War Two movie, I'm viciously reminded of this period of time.

Treatment worked, but every time I felt gaseous in the days that followed, it was like Russian Roulette.  With every squeeze of the "trigger", I'd wince just in case there was an explosion.

This second account is very much true.  However, if you're like me and have very little self-respect and wish to get out of work this weekend, don't hesitate to use the story.  We've all been there and most people wouldn't lie about something so disgusting and heinous..., but I would.

A Steaming Pile of Shit

I've seen a lot of movies in my lifetime.  Not all of them have been good.  Some have been complete stinkers.  "Drop Dead Fred", "Babylon A.D." and "Meet The Spartans" all come to mind.  Of all the crap that (mysteriously) gets produced every year, I've seen quite a few of them, but never have I walked out on a single movie.  Every one of them, I endured to the bitter end, choosing to critique them in their entirety.  "Hobo With A Shotgun", "Dark Shadows" and "Public Enemy" are a few more titles that fell short of what was promised audiences.

Even, in the privacy of my own home, I've chosen to continue watching terrible movies.  "Inception", "The Man With The Iron Fists" and "The Rum Diary", all shitty movies.  It was mentioned, even, that if a person got high and watched "Your Highness" that it would be funny.  I was high as a kite, when I watched that one and NO.  This is not the case, but I watched it to the end.

Tonight, I went to my bi-weekly movie with friends and the movie of (their) choice was "Into The Woods".  My initial thoughts when first seeing the preview, was no way.  I was not going to see that one.  It's not that I'm against musicals, it's just this particular film never appealed to me.  However, since it's release in December, the film has garnered numerous award nominations.  Awards numerous enough to catch my attention.  If the critics are rewarding this film with multiple accolades, then perhaps my initial opinions were unfounded.  When the decision was made the other day to see the film, I thought it an ample opportunity to see the film.

My initial gut instinct was the correct one.  I don't know what the public and the critics are smoking in order to find and believe this film to be anything other than complete drivel.  A complete waste of time.  Not all of the songs were tiresome, some actually kind of pleasant, but the number was ever so slight, totaling maybe two at most.  The rest droned on forever and ever.  Continuing to drive... No.  Hammer their point across to an audience who is probably half asleep, by this point.  Then, right when you come to the conclusion that the story is over and credits are to begin rolling, the story takes a confusing twist and continues on from there.

It was after a lengthy solo by Emily Blunt, who may or may not have cheated on her husband with Prince Charming, who was cheating on his new bride, Cinderella....  F*ck me!  It's tiring just trying to keep up with this meaningless plot point.  This was the point that I got up and left.

At the beginning of this blog entry, I commented that I've seen a lot of shitty movies in my life.  A LOT of shitty f*cking movies, both at home and in the theater and NEVER have I ever walked out of a single picture.  I left this f*cking movie.  I got up from my seat, asked the usher outside the theater when the movie was supposed to be over.  "At 9:30" she told me, "It's two and a half hours long."  I glanced down at my phone as she informed me of this fact, the time reading 20:48.  There was another forty minutes to go.  "F*ck that!" I proclaimed, as if they really gave two shits about what I thought.

When we exit any film, my companions always turn and ask me what I thought of the movie.  If I don't like, I tell them, to which one always says, "But it was better than 'Meet The Spartans', right?"  I usually agree.  Not this time.  I left without saying "boo".  I walked out, sent a text for them to read when the movie let out, and I never looked back.  This is money that I'll never see again and time wasted away from my boy.  The worst part about this movie, though, was the fact that I wasn't tired enough to go to sleep.  A restful slumber might have been this movie's only saving grace and that wasn't even in the cards, tonight.

"Into The Woods" was a steaming pile of shit.  It's undeserving of any award nominations that it's received and I hope to f*ck that it loses EVERY single award.  The producers and studio who made the movie should be ashamed of themselves and anyone recommending this film for all to see, ought to wake up with a mouthful of cat hair.  Of course, that's just MY opinion, but I've never been wrong a day in my life.

"INTO THE WOODS"
What a shit show...

Obsolescence

I learned a new word today at work.  A variation of the word obsolete.  I never thought that work, of all places, is where I would learn something like this, but alas.  I've been schooled.

A line of machinery had been discontinued and as such the parts for that implement are no longer of any value, except (likely) what can be collected via scrap.  A HUGE waste of money, overall, if you ask me.  I mean, why produce an excess of the parts needed for the production of the original line?  Needless to say, there be a f*ck load of shit that needs to be scrapped over the coming weeks.

However, I digress.  Complaining about the stupidity of the higher ups is not my intent for this little blog, today.  To report on the idiocy of the bureaucrats at work would be about as informative as announcing: Water is wet!  No kidding?  Thank you Capt. Obvious!

Obsolescence be thy word.  All day long, I saw it posted on a couple of crates, collected to begin heaping hoards of obsolete parts into for recycling and otherwise.  The word seems so simple, yet complex at the same time.  The more that I repeated the word over in my head, the more the word made me smile and chuckle to myself.  For the word, in and of itself, does not sound like what it actually means.   

The word obsolescence, to me, sounds instead like a virus.  A disease you'd get as a result of eating too much red meat.  I thought tomato-based products at first, as this always makes me race for the bathroom, but red meat can be all the more destructive, if allowed.

"Oh boy!  I shouldn't have gone to Rodney's barbecue and ate all the rare beef.  Now I have a scorching case of Obsolescence.  I can't stray more than a few feet from the toilet before racing back to evacuate my bowels."

Yes.  That's right!  To me, obsolescence sounds like a viral infection that causes you to shit streams of gooey ungodliness.  The kind of unruly turmoil that results in using over half of a roll of ultra-soft toilet paper in hopes of soothing a burning aching backside.  Definitely a double-flusher.

Obsolescence...

Does A Bear Shit In The Woods?

Does a bear shit in the woods?  Yes.  I suppose it does.  However, another quandary that has bugged me for awhile, now, concerns zombies.

The premise of zombies has plagued our culture for over half a century, if not longer.  Zombies have certainly been a mainstay in cinema, made most famous by the George A. Romero movies, which include "Night of the Living Dead", "Day of the Dead", and "Dawn of the Dead", just to name a few, as well as inspired other film makers to produce their own spins of the zombie phenomenon.  Like AMC's "The Walking Dead", Brit, Simon Pegg's comedic "Shaun of the Dead", and most recently, the Brad Pitt vehicle, "World War Z", which offered an entirely new spin on the zombie genre.

However, as much as the zombie craze eats at our imaginations and nightmares, one question has eluded me for quite sometime now.  Given my unique outlook on life and the world, when watching such media involving the undead, I find myself distracted by this mystery.  I doubt that there are many others, if any at all, who wonder about the inner mechanics of a zombie.

If any one of us (living souls) were to sit down and gorge ourselves with a hearty meal, it wouldn't be long before we'd need to visit the commode to evacuate our bowels.  So I pose this query, given all the brains and guts that a zombie feeds upon, do they not poop?  With their increased craving for human flesh driving their need to feed, logically, the more they devour, one of two things would be the inevitable outcome.  Either one, they simply shit themselves.  Or two, they would grow well beyond the capacity of what their rotting flesh could contain, resulting in a rupture of the lower torso, causing everything to spill out onto the ground.  I would dare to venture a guess in supposing that the latter would initiate cannibalism among the zombie herd.

That is what logic dictates, although evidence of that has never been profiled in any zombie movies that I am familiar with.  Mostly because zombies tend to die rather quickly with a bullet to the brain or a tire iron skillful thrust through their skull.  And even the ones who do "survive" and assault from the living, the camera very seldom, if ever sticks around to showcase a "day in the un-life of a zombie".

There's no evidence of zombies succumbing to exploded stomachs and intestines.  Yet I doubt that during their aimless trek across the land, that they slyly sneak behind a bush to quickly drop a deuce before continuing their quest.  Therefore, it is most likely that shit themselves. The consistency of what zombie fecal matter would be, but I've consume rare beef in the past and it's not had a good reaction in the bathroom.  So by process of elimination, it's safe to presume that a zombie's defecation would one of an oily or greasy secretion, rather than a chunky mass that would easily run down their pant leg.  While a zombie's appearance is unkempt and dirty, I've never noticed any disturbing (and disgusting) brownish-black shit stains on their wardrobe.  Not that I'm in the habit of checking out the asses of the undead.

So, to answer the question;  Does a bear shit in the woods?  Hell yeah, it does.  But does a zombie bear shit in the woods?  Who the f*ck knows?!?  But I wouldn't want to be around to find out.

Trouser Snake

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Could Give A

I could give a rat's ass!!!

Actually, I couldn't a rat's ass.  I don't have access to a rat.  Nor do I even know where to access a rat.  I suppose I could visit one of the many local pet stores and acquire a rat.  I doubt they'd cost very much.  Then I could give a rat's ass.

On the second hand, though, I'd be stuck with a rat with no ass and I don't know what sort of medical problems that would produce.  I can only imagine that a rat without an ass is going to bloat up, filling more and more with rat turds, on account of not having a method of vacating it's bowels.  The poor little bugger would eventually explode, spreading rat feces all over the place.  If I kept the assless rat in a shoe box wrapped in duct tape, I suppose that'd contain the exploding rat, although that is only a theory and has yet to be proven by myself or science.  And plus, that'd be awfully selfish of me to steal away the rat's ass to give to someone else to prove I could care less about something, then stuffing the poor f*cker into a shoe box wrapped in duct tape.

When you consider how very little I care about a lot of shit, I'd be tossing out rat's asses out all the time, like a Las Vegas poker dealer.  So then I'd be faced with a plethora of assless rats.  That's a helluva problem.  I've not bought that many pairs of shoes in my lifetime, let alone have enough shoe boxes to contain all the assless rats.  One could double or triple them up in the shoe boxes, I suppose, but cannibalism runs wild in the rat kingdom.  If left in a shoe box, I'm sure one would eventually turn on the other, which is disgusting, not to mention, the cannibal rat would be adding to the compiling poop in it's system, ironically causing it to explode all the more quickly.

A "humane" alternative, would be to purchase myself a snake.  This way, once the rat's ass was issued to whomever, the remaining parts of the rat could be fed to the snake.  I'm not a fan of snakes, though.  Especially, the constrictor variety.  I see them on TV and in that Harry Potter movie, and they always look like their thinking.  I don't like any creature that appears to be smarter than myself.  Not too mention, you always hear about those f*cking snakes getting out of their cages and killing the family pet or worse.  I don't have any small children in my household, unless you include my cat, Monkey.  He's an agile little f*cker, but I don't know how he'd fair against a large constricting snake, and I don't wish to find out.

My not caring about things could run up quite an expensive tally.  Though inexpensive, dozens and dozens of rats would add up quickly, not to mention the cost of a snake and all the shit you need to encase one of those bastards.  My bank account would quickly dwindle, this much I am certain of.

Obviously I've given this subject a lot of thought.  I've also considered the idea that I don't care about a lot of shit.  I don't know if this makes me shallow or callous.  I do, however, have trouble in distinguishing whether I could or couldn't care less.  Nor do I know exactly, when to give a shit or not give a shit about something.  The latter, I suppose, has to do with one's diet.  I suppose if a person consumes a lot of roughage, then they, in theory, could give a shit about a lot more.  Personally, I'm allergic to a lot of stuff like whole wheat products, and therefore am unable to drop a deuce when it's deemed necessary to convey my dislike or lack of care on a particular subject.  I still poop, yes.  I'm not in danger of exploding myself, but I just can't do it at the drop of a hat.

This is quite a dilemma that I'm faced with.  Damned if I do.  Damned if I don't.  I have no avenues in which to confer with on this subject.  Nobody knows the trouble I face on a daily basis.  I've consulted the internet with hopes of finding a solution, but I don't even want to go into detail about the sick shit that has come up.  Suffice it to say, there's a lot of sick f*ckers in the world.

I could invest a lot more time into the discovery of  how to deal with this dilemma.  Lord knows I have the time, but....  When you get right down to it, it doesn't really concern me a lot.  I guess, I just don't give two shits about it.

Wet and Juicy

I went and saw the most recent Jason Statham movie, "Parker" tonight.  I thought it was a decent flick.  It had great special effects and was filled to the nines with a shit load of blood and violence.  Everything that makes this boy laugh out heartily.  The movie co-starred Michael Chiklis (Vegas, The Shield), who was a fantastic villain and a formidable foe against Statham's character.  Jennifer Lopez also starred and for once, the sound of her voice didn't make me pray for deafness, nor did she make me want to gouge my f*cking eyes out.  (I don't find the whole 'ghetto booty' thing as attractive as so many others seem to.)  

The movie, itself, was fairly decent.  A formulated storyline, bad guy with a set of ethics, who's been wronged and he's out to get back at those who double-crossed him.  It's a story that's been told a million and one times, yet we, the movie going audience, still buy up that shit up.  The only real drawback that I found, was the company that were seated around me.

I like to see movies on my own sometimes.  After all, when the lights go out, nobody should be conversing anyway, so I don't see any big deal about it.  I like to find a nice seat that is centralized to the screen, but secluded enough that people won't sit near me.  I go early enough to find my place, but not so much that I'm sitting there like a f*cking idiot for too long.  This strategy usually works well enough, but was thwarted tonight.  I had a couple of guys sit directly in front of me, despite the entire row being open and free.  Thankfully the guy right in front of me was no taller than a garden gnome, but the other motherf*cker was freakishly big.  A great big dark fella who filled the space around him with a thick stench of smoke and buckskin.  Not cigarette smoke, but "throw another log on the..."  It was thick but I mustered through the pain. 

The next audience members to join the vicinity were a special couple.  They sat directly behind me, which is fine, as my view wouldn't be obscured any more than it already was.  However, they were chattery.  Actually the female of the two, was well-behaved and never muttered more than a couple of sentences before the previews began.  Her companion, on the other hand, wouldn't shut his f*cking mouth up during the previews and the first few scenes of the movie.  As each character appeared into frame, he'd announce to his row, practically, who was who and what was what.  I think someone finally shushed him into silence, but what followed was worse than the talking.

He'd cough, then clear his throat and if you thought the smoky buckskin clad fella in front of me stank, you clearly have never experienced someone with shit breath.  I kid you not!  He smelled like he not only ate a shit-sandwich for supper, but consumed an entire shit buffet.  When I was a kid growing up on the farm, there was a work horse there named JIM.  He was a nice enough horse, as horses go, I guess.  A gentle and kind demeanor that made him very approachable by us kids.  I mention Jim, only because he had a small problem with flatulence.  You'd be patting him down or running a comb over his back and I don't know if it relaxed him or what, but he'd let loose with a lengthy and very smelly fart that practically wrinkled his skin as it vacated his body.  The guy's breath who was seated behind me, smelled just like Jim's wet and juicy farts.

By the time the movie had begun, the small theater had filled to enough capacity that I was unable to find another seat that wouldn't put me practically on top of some one else, and even then it's a crap shoot (pardon the pun), as in the past, I've jumped from the frying pan into the fire and found myself in worse shape.  Kinda like that fella in front of me who smelled like he fell into a fire too.  Probably drunk... 

The Nastiness of Life

There's a lot of nasty shit in the world.  Most that people put up with on a daily basis, most of which, I couldn't f*cking deal with, myself, though.  Off the top of my head, pardon the pun, a hairdresser or barber.  I couldn't f*cking deal with all the f*ckin' hair.  My sister is a hairdresser, a profession that she enjoys thoroughly, but I can't fathom the idea of touching people's hair for a living.  I barely enjoy running my fingers through my own hair, let alone someone else's, and I have an awesome head of hair.  However, on my visits for haircuts, I watch as she (my sister) sweeps up all the hair that has collected on the floor and dispenses it into the garbage can, that is always steeped with pounds of discarded human hair.  Minimal amounts of that which is swept, escapes the broom and is left, tucked into nooks and corners of the room.  Small minuscule hairs, scattered about the room, similar to those of mine I discover on my shirt when I arrive at home.

Another gross practice is Wing Night at some of the local eateries.  While the flavoured chicken wings are (usually) quite tasty, I cringe when the waitress or busboy comes to collect the plates of discarded bones.  The collected bones varying from being completely devoured of every morsel of meat, to some with some skin and cartilage remaining, all however, covered with saliva and spit.  I try to assist in placing my own plate of bones on the tray and even then, am disgusted when a hint of my own drool grazes a digit.

The absolute worst feeling though, is that disgusting warm sensation when you sit down on a public toilet seat.  I use public facilities ONLY at times of absolute desperation and emergency.  In most cases, public restrooms are f*cking disgusting.  Veritable petri dishes of filth and germs, despite some poor shlub signing off that they've "thoroughly cleaned" the facility.  God forbid, if a person ever has to use a bathroom at a bar.  Holy Christ, I can't imagine the horror of realizing you need to drop a deuce there.  I don't know what the women's restrooms are like, but the men's room is almost always in some form of dilapidated state.

However, IF the need to use the public restroom presents itself, why the f*ck does the toilet seat need to be hot and sweaty?  What the f*ck was the predecessor forcing out of his ass that required that much intensity?   A f*cking Miata?  They sound like Bruce Banner turning into the Incredible Hulk.  "Oh no.  Oooh no!  Oooh God, no!!  Haah!!  Haaarrrrrrruuuuuuugh!!!"  Or perhaps, it is simply a case of a person taking some time out of their busy day to kick back and relax on the shitter? A moment or two from a hectic work day or a few fleeting moments away from the kids throwing tantrums...  Of all the f*cked up places to relax, why would you choose a public restroom?

It is a true rarity that I will find myself in the public restroom, of any establishment or shopping mall.  And if it is necessary to pay a visit, it's in and out in record time, because guaranteed, any longer than a minute and there's a unfortunate fool in the next stall, who is unleashing some kind of fury.  Sounds similar dumping a bucket of gravel into the bowl, masked only by the occasional grunt or groan of great strife.  I don't know what the f*ck these people eat that they need to strain themselves almost to the point of injury, but I'm staying the f*ck away from the food court, just to be on the safe side.

It's shit like this that keeps me pretty close to home.  It's bad enough driving in traffic with these f*ckin' people, but having to share space with them too?  No f*cking thank you....

Shitastrophe

Wednesday's have always been a questionable day for me.  Without trying, if I have a nasty day, prone with mishaps and bad luck.., not that people ever "try" to have a bad day.  However, whenever I've had a bad day, if you look to the calendar, you'd be best assured that it was Wednesday.

For instance, when I had that unfortunate incident with my [then] alcoholic father, where I had my nose broke among other scrapes, chips, and bruises...?  THAT was a Wednesday at 7pm.  Many of the job firings that I've experienced throughout my troubled past, always happened on a Wednesday.  The bad car accident when I was a kid, where I plowed my '74 Nova into a 1977 Ford Mustang II*, occurred on a Wednesday evening.  Even later on, when I had that real bad accident, where my car, seemingly, got sucked off the street and into a row of parked cars.  That happened during a nasty blizzard, which also fell on a Wednesday.

(*What the hell was Ford thinking when they designed the Mustang II??)

Most Wednesdays, though, are survivable.  A majority pass by without so much as a hiccup.  Therefore, you can't set your watch by my misfortune.  However, as stated above.  IF I am having a shit day, it's Wednesday.

One might presume that it'd be Monday that would be unlucky.  Coming back to work after a nice relaxing weekend, but this is not the case for me.  Whilst others are groggy and disheveled, I'm usually joyful and in fine fettle.  Being at work may not be my first choice of destinations, but I'm not harbouring and ill-will against it either.

Today, however, I suspected was going to be "one of those days", right from the get go.  It began when I woke up a 4:30am and was unable to fall back asleep until roughly five minutes before my alarm screeched loudly.  Not a real big issue, as this does happen on occasion and on any day of the week, although it's usually reserved for work days.  I'm sorta lucky that way, I suppose.  Next was when I went to leave for work.  I was finally leaving in a timely fashion, stoked that I might find a decent parking spot, for once, not too terribly far from the entrance at work.  However, when I pressed the button to raise my garage door, it wouldn't budge.  Instead, it just groaned at me, "Awwwwww?".

Almost five years I've lived in this house.  Almost five years where this situation has never presented itself.  It was unseasonably warm yesterday, hitting 4 or 5 degrees above zero (Celsius), so I knew there would be some melting, but I've never experienced my garage door freezing to the concrete driveway.  Never in a million years, would I have thought that would happen, but it did.  So I had to struggle with that for awhile, forcing me to be later than I wanted for work.  I managed to clock in with a measly five minutes to spare.

Next was one of the fella's being ill, and my having to fill his spot.  Not a big deal, as that seems to be my "unofficial position" nowadays.  Unfortunately, though, because I get moved around so frequently in this workplace, I tend not to retain much of the job requirements for each section and/or area, so I progress slower with the job and tend to upset many of those I'm trying to service.  I was not familiar with B___'s requirements, and to make matters worse, I had an "incident".

I drive a forklift.  A major setback, for me anyway, is obstacles in the way.  People will often illustrate what tasks they want done, but fail to move most of the debris and shit out of the way for me to performs these tasks in a timely fashion.  Today was no different.  I was instructed to bring some railings in from outside, but when I opened the big overhead door, there were two tuggers parked in the way.  (A tugger is a small electric-powered machine, designed to push or pull extremely heaving objects, much like a tug boat is a tiny vessel used to move giant ships into port.)  If these tuggers were parked in-line and off to one side, that would have been manageable.  Instead, they were parked side by side.  Not cool.  So rather than exercise good judgement and request that someone move the obstacle, I raised the railing up in an attempt to pass over the tugger.  Bad idea!

While I was careful to not clip the overhead door with the mast of my extended forks, I was not so lucky with the blower fan housing immediately after the door.  I clipped the corner of it, forcing it to swing hard into the overhead door, thus snapping both cables and leaving the door stuck, in an open position with a cold wind blowing in from the north.

I had to explain what happened to the area supervisor, then to my supervisor (multiple times), then to his supervisors (again, multiple times), and so on.  It seemed that as simple as the mishap was, very few were able to wrap their head around what had actually happened.  It was simple, I even left a small dent in the blower housing that could clearly be seen from the floor below.

I was expediently rushed to the Human Resources office where I was made to take several tests.  I had to blow into a breathalyzer, which came up 0.00% alcohol.  I doubt I'd have any alcohol left in my system from my birthday celebration back in 2011, which is the last time I got drunk.  Plus, who the f*ck gets drunk before work at 7am? (Although, this incident occurred a little more than two hours later, at 9:20am)  Next I had to swab my mouth -- top, bottom, left and right, as well as both sides of my tongue.  This was testing for drugs in my system.  Crystal meth, pot, cocaine, and a couple others I've never heard of.  I thought, "If I were on coke, that'd make me more alert, wouldn't it?"  I never had the balls to ask, plus I recognized this was a serious matter, and a jovial outlook would be frowned upon.  After two more swab attempts and about twenty minutes, I was cleared.  I hoped that they were going to send me home, but I guess they wanted to punish me, so they sent me back to work.  ((SH!T))

Just after lunch, I had some hard candy in my mouth, and like a retard, I crunched down and managed to crack one of my molars along with the lime-flavoured candy.  I guess that, right there, is the proverbial f*cking cherry on top of my shit sundae.  NOW, I find myself having to take tomorrow morning off, to get my tooth fixed.  Thankfully, it doesn't hurt.

Thankfully, I made it the rest of the afternoon, without any major incidents, although my day was riddled with small mishaps.  When the horn sounded marking the end of the day, I couldn't have breathed a bigger sigh of relief.  I drove straight home, parked in the garage, whose door opened without hesitation (phew), and with fingers crossed, my evening should be very relaxing.

Not long after I started at C.__.__., I had an unfortunate experience.  It was a chain reaction, much like today, but more extended.  I nudged a small box with the front tire of my lift.  That box moved into a cart, which bumped another cart, that swayed a large dry-erase message board, that was not secured to anything, which then swung downward, into the side of a computer station, and from there, gravity took over and the computer and (top heavy) monitor, came crashing down to the floor.  The whole matter took a couple minutes, as I had already driven off, oblivious to the domino effect that was tumbling about behind me.  That series of inconvenient events, my friends, happened on a motherf*cking Wednesday...!!!

Tainted Meat

I live in a 4-level split home.  It's in a nice neighbourhood, with very little or no crime.  I live near a couple of schools and a high school.  There's even a church or two down the street, if the urge ever comes to me to go pray or something.  I love my home very very much, but in recent weeks and months, I've begun looking at my home in a very different way.  My house is NOT "zombie-proof".

The main floor has a big bay window facing the street and patio doors to the rear, both providing great visibility to the undead, if they ever decide to reanimate and roam the earth.  As well, the living room and spare bedroom, also have large windows, which would provide a determined zombie, with brains on the mind, to gain access to my home.  These are the things that freak the shit out of me, late at night when I'm watching "The Walking Dead" or any of the "Resident Evil" movies.  What the hell would I do, if such an event were to occur?  I don't own any weapons, not that I'd be a very good shot anyway, as I found out last year when taking target practice with a f*cking BB gun.  I seem to shake too much, while holding the heavy instrument.  I'm such a chick!

My sister's house is perfect.  A one level home with limited windows facing front, excellent window coverings on all, and best of all, direct entry into the garage.  So if escape is necessary, no one is placed in danger of being ravaged.  As for me, I have to leave my front door, then fumble with keys to get into my garage, all the while fighting off hungry zombies.  I'll have my work cut out for me, if the occasion should ever arise.  Perhaps I should have "zombie drills" in the meantime, to get myself in proper preparedness.

The thing I don't completely understand about zombies, though, is what drives them to crave human meat?  Does it taste like chicken?  Or more specifically, brains!  Why do so many zombies crave human brains?  And I also wonder, has there ever been a zombie who bore into a human brain, only to sit back and grunt, "Aaargh.  Thisss isss terrrribllllle...!  Wherrre'ssss a Mickey D'ssss?"  And what if a person was a vegan before they were a zombie?  Would they rather carve into a head of lettuce?

The entire idea of a Zombie Apocalypse is so preposterous.  In watching the season finale of "The Walking Dead", there was a production note saying that on the night of filming, the air was so cool, that the breath could be seen from the actors playing the zombies.  So post-production had to go over every frame of film and erase the breathe via CGI.  This raised some questions with me.  If a zombie does not breathe,  how are they able to grunt and groan or in some movies, speak the word "brains".  In order to squeak, squeal, grunt, groan, howl or holler, air needs to pass over the vocal chords.  If the undead don't breath, how are they able to do all of these things?

This isn't the only question to cross my mind, either.  Another logical conclusion seems to be eluded from every zombie-esque type film of television show.  I'm not sure if the subject has been broached in the comic book, that "The Walking Dead" is derived from, but:  With all the meat and brains that zombies take in, do they shit?  Why is it you never see a zombie squatting in a street or an alley or next to a bush, pinching out a soft gooey loaf of shit?  I doubt that they'd wipe off any excess.  They're rotting corpses, after all.  The smell of shit, might be a blessing in comparison.

If zombies do indeed shit, it is possible, I suppose, that they'd do it right in their pants.  Proper hygiene seems pretty low on their list of priorities.  Most of them, don't even comb their own hair.  What they do do, however, is maintain a, somewhat, healthy wardrobe.  Of all the zombie movies I've had the privilege of watching, the zombies have always kept their private parts private.  I'm not some kind of sicko hoping to see naked rotting titties, but one has to wonder.  The clothing always seems to be tattered and torn, but never enough that zombies are left roaming the countryside, au naturel.  It's like the Incredible Hulk, in the sense that Bruce Banner is a smallish man, yet when he loses his cool, and becomes the behemoth man-beast, all his clothes tear away, except for his trousers which stretch to accommodate his incredible size.  Just as the lowly zombie tears and rots away, his trousers (or her pant suit) stays intact just enough to cover the necessities.  I suppose this is a good thing, as zombies tend to "live" off the land, just as beatniks and hippies do.

So that being said.  In the end, I haven't anything to be afraid of.  I can sit idly by in the comforts of my own home, watching my television set and drinking from my glass, safe in the fact that even if a Zombie Apocalypse were to arise, there's nothing to fear, because who's afraid of a f*cking hippy?  Not this guy!