Hand-Free

"Look ma!! No hands."  It's a weird thing to pop into my head, considering I was urinating at the time.  However, it is, what it is, and it's the line that popped in my head as I exited the stall in the men's washroom.  The place was atrocious.  If it were a pig sty, it would be a vast improvement, but calling it this, would be detrimental to pig sties everywhere.

Having a shy bladder at the best of times, I'm always regulated to going into the stalls.  Even though the ambient noise is enough to discourage urination of any kind, having a physical barrier to separate me from the rest of the clattering people, is just enough to relax and entice me into going.  Public washrooms are often a freakin' horror show, but the restroom at public functions like a convention  or in the case earlier tonight, a music concert, the bathroom is absolutely catastrophic.

After the close of the show, I rushed into the washroom and immediately found a vacant stall.  What met my gaze on the other side of that door was horrific.  It was as though an Islamic Jihadist had blown themselves up using a piss bomb.  There was urine everywhere.  On the seat.  On the floor.  On the toilet paper dispenser, thus the roll was drenched and poofy from moisture expansion.  There was even urine dripping down the walls.  In fact, I believe the only place that never got hit by any piss, was the inside of the bowl.  It's no wonder women find men disgusting in the bathroom.

Perhaps it's unmanly to admit, but I sit (at home) to use the toilet.  Reason being, splash-back.  If you go to any household where there's either a majority of males or where the man is the lone occupant, chances are you're going to see dried piss on the outside of the bowl.  This is from splash-back and it's f*cking disgusting.  I won't have it in my house.  Nope.  No way.  No how.

Outside of the house is a different matter all together.  I refuse to sit my ass down on a public toilet unless it's a dire emergency.  In addition to my refusal to sit down, I also refrain from using my bare hands.  It's all elbows and feet, and I've gotten pretty god damned good at it, too.  "Look ma!!  No hands!!"

"What would possess someone to piss everywhere except in the bowl?" I wondered to myself, "It's no wonder women find men f*cking disgusting."  It was at this point.., mid-stream.., into the toilet bowl, I might add, that I thought of this instrument.  Like the laser sights currently available for a vast number of handguns and assault weapons, it would seem beneficial to men, if there were a way to apply that science to their dicks, enabling them the ability to no longer spray down everything except the inner sanctum of the toilet bowl.  The laser sights, seem to come in various sizes so there should be a guidance system for just about every man on earth.  Given how much people like to play with guns, a laser sight would give them ample opportunity to play with....  Uh... Never mind.

A Hidden Agenda

It's not often that I get to recycle a picture for my blog, but when the opportunity arises, it only makes sense.

As stated in my previous blog, I've traveled from my home in sweet Saskatoon, to the bowels of Hell, aka Regina, for the bittersweet weekend among friends, to commemorate and celebrate the memory of our friend and family member, Darcy.

The last few years, we've stayed at a hotel on the northern end of the city, but this year we've moved to a new spot.  I'm not certain when this establishment was built, but the rooms are nicer, bigger and way cleaner.  To put it plainly, I'm not afraid to sit on the bed spreads while wearing shorts.  The rooms all, from what I've seen thus far, are all generic with practically the same artwork on every wall, but over all, I believe this experience will be for the best.

The location is superb, seated just off a main drag.  There's a decent speckling of restaurants and fast food joints all around, unlike the other place that had a Burger Baron across the street and a Tim Horton's about a block south.  The Burger Baron's food is so sub-par to what should be considered edible, and the walk to the Timmy Ho's is not for the faint of heart.

I got to visit the Carl's Jr, down the street from this Days Inn and though it fell short of my experience when I visited the one in Kelowna, British Columbia, the food was still okay.  The only downside to that visit was the bearded toilet and the creepy albino dude who lurked behind the corner of my booth, readily available to jump out and inquire about my meal.  He asked three frickin' times.

The hotel, costs about the same per night as the previous one did, only this one seems to have a plethora of hidden fees that the other never seemed to have, or at least hid better than this one does.  The room is $128 per night, which by my math, comes out to about $256.  I'm being charged just under $300.  When asked about the extra charges, the quirky fellow behind the desk proudly answered, "Taxes and other fees."

Taxes, I understand.  We can't get away from that, unfortunately.  No matter what a person does or buys, the government needs to have their hand out for their share, too.  It was the "fees" that sparked my interest.  "What sort of fees?"  I asked.

"Well," he explained, "There's the destination fee."

"Destination fee?" I asked, "What's a destination fee?"

"Regina charges visitors a fee for coming to the city." he said.

I found this reasoning, absurd.  "The city charges people to visit their city?  That's ridiculous."  I said.

That sounds as stupid as the conversation with the bank last week, who told me that the bank charges it's customers a fee for banking with them.  Now this city charges people a fee for the "privilege" of visiting their city?  That doesn't make any sense.

"It's to help pay for events like the Exhibition (fair) or Agribition (agricultural exhibition)." he explained, without so much as agreeing that the premise seemed deceitful or devious and no matter how much prodding I made, he wouldn't budge and admit that it was stupid.

I look at situations like this and wonder where I fell short, unable to think up a helpful service that people require then charging them a f**king fee for being so helpful.  I couldn't do such a thing, though.  As much of a scoundrel as I can be at times, I can't be a complete asshole.  I wanna be an asshole, but I can't bring myself to it.  Regina, on the other hand, in addition to being a giant toilet, is proving itself to be every bit the asshole I've always suspected it to be.

Near Death Experience

My life flashed before my eyes, as I gazed back into the bowl to inspect the damage.  The sight was a blood curdling crimson red.  I was horrified at what might be afoot, now, with regards to my continuing spiraling health. In addition to the plethora of ailments that have plagued me over the past few years, I speculated that something truly sinister was invading my body and I would soon be visiting another battery of invasive medical specialists poking and prodding my body, humming and hawing with great speculation, wrought with supposition and very little certainty.  More medical professionals labeling me an "odd duck", which is not a proper medical terminology.

What I saw in that toilet bowl was horrific.  Like a murder scene from "Dexter".  A few shards of muddied feculence blanketed with the deepest crimson colour.  A colour so intense that if someone drove up in a hot rod of the same hue, it'd surely turn onlooker heads, but splashed inside the toilet bowl was true horror and a real cause for concern.

"What will become of my boy?" I thought, in reference to my cat.  My mother is getting on in years and will be unable to take care of a feline friend.  My sister already has a St. Bernard, whom my cat, Monkey, detests greatly, not to mention his dislike of children.

What of my other possessions?  My house?  My truck?  My car?  So many things that I have in my greedy hands that I don't want to share with others in the event of my untimely passing.  What the hell am I going to...?  Wait a second!!

"Awe, shit!!" I said, aloud, having just remembered I had beets for supper, last night.  "That explains the ungodly sight."

An overwhelming sigh of relief erupted from my breath.  I would survive, after all.  What with all the healthy meals I've been preparing, as of late, I expect to live a very long time.., as dreadful as that idea is to bear.

Double Deuce

When the name or term 'Double Deuce' is Googled, a number of responses come up.  First, and foremost, is the name of the bar that Patrick Swayze handed ass-kicking's out in the movie Road House.  Another bar and grill that comes up, likely because of where I'm situated in the world, is the bar I used to frequent years 'n' years ago during my drunken stupidity era, then later on, the meeting place where friends and I would consume buffalo wings or the daily special before taking in a movie on 'cheap ass Tuesdays' at the nearby cinema.  That bar no longer exists.  Not by name anyway.  Today it goes by an Irish name that I cannot recall.

The terminology, on the other hand, defines it as something completely different.  By definition, while it sounds country and/or western, what a 'double deuce' is....  Well...  On second thought.  You be  the judge.  The definition that I read online was as follows: A 'double deuce' is the act of when one person is seated on the toilet, taking a shit and a second person sits on the first persons lap and shits through the space between the first person's legs.  Now I shouldn't jump to conclusions, but, this sounds a little gay and quite a bit more daring than I'd ever care to witness.  Let's put it this way; Super Dave Osborne was an amazing stuntman in his day, but not even Super Dave would try such a daunting feat.  Not even with Genuine Saskatchewan Seal Skin Bindings.

I was visiting my mother's house this morning, helping her change the handle on her front door.  After finishing the task, I suddenly had to rush to the washroom.  On her toilet, there's an apparatus that raises the seat up about six inches.  She's on a waiting list to have a hip replacement and attached the seating device early, so as to get the hang of it before the day of her surgery comes.  Unfortunately, for everyone who visits, they also get to practice pooping as if they'd just had a hip replacement.  Thus was my experience.  After conducting my business, I returned to the kitchen where we'd been chatting.  I marveled in two things when  I sat down.  One was remembering a blog that I wanted to write involving the Zombie Apocalypse.  The second was being reminded of the illustrious 'Double Deuce'.  I quickly explained to my mother, who was not privy to the term, and regaled with the response that it gave her.  Normally, her brand of humour shies away from the vulgar, but she laughed loudly at the premise.  I don't know if she'll share the new found knowledge with anyone or if she'll be able to properly retell the story, but those fleeting moments of my mom laughing and shaking uncontrollably, were all too precious for me.

"Double Deuce" sounds like a country 'n' western term and taking a shit between your buddy's legs is pretty gay.., so maybe what I've said for years and years about country music turning people gay, may be true, after all.  I've always stated that it (country music) makes women think about men in tight-fittin' jeans and that it makes men think about men in tight-fittin' jeans.  I actually concocted a joke from that premise once, but nobody understood it.  After a few confused looks and head scratches, I aborted the premise, citing "It's not funny if I have to explain it to you..."

 Guess it was too intellectual for them, or something.

Letter to Mr. Ant

Dear Mr. Ant,

Out of all the lovely homes in the surrounding area of my house, you've chosen mine to inhabit.  Although, it has been quite a lovely year, thus far, weather-wise, you've taken up in the walls of my downstairs bathroom.  Whether you are here of your own volition or have conglomerated here as a member of your extensive family, I feel I should thank you, in part, for choosing my home to infest over everyone else's.  So thank you...., I guess.

However, I have a cat and he, alone, is more than a hand full.  Whether it's his constant whining and complaining or policing his mischievous character or repeatedly having to clean up his vomit, I have my hands full.  I'm not looking for anymore roommates.  

Even though, in all honesty, anytime I've stumbled across your masses creeping and crawling about my bathroom and lower living room, you all do seem fairly self-sufficient, of which I do appreciate.  However, in the end, you and your kind are not welcome in my house.

I thought you and your friends would've gotten the idea that you're not welcome, when you came across the slaughtered corpses of your mates.  Poisoned and (hopefully) experienced a painful and horrible death.  If I were taking up residence somewhere, uninvited, then came across some of my friends and family lying dead out in a field, whether I knew the reason behind their death's or not, I'd get the f*ck outta there.  Of course, I am a brilliant mind whose brain is not the size of a microbe.

Or the time I came across hundreds of you hugging the wall of my bathroom, engaged in some kind of "outdoor" festival, and I scooped you all up and flushed you.  That was a good time.  For me, anyway.  Not so much for your friends, I suppose.  But who doesn't enjoy a nice pool party?

Clearly reasoning doesn't appeal to your kind.  I know that despite all the f*cking poison I've put down you f*ckers aren't taking the f*cking hint.  So I've decided to allow you all to stay.... On one condition.

Using the aforementioned toilet, I've decided to use it to both of our advantages.  In addition to the poop and pee that is deposited in it on a daily basis, I've also incorporated it into this scenario.  Every time I come across one of you little motherf*ckers, I'm going to scoop you up and dump you into the toilet.  Admittedly, the bowl won't always be filled with just cool clean water, because let's face it, if I'm coming into that room, there's a predetermined reason behind it.  However, if you survive, you'll be all the more strong and will better appreciate your survival.

I will be scooping your skinny little asses into the bowl.  Poop, pee, or all of the above, I will flush the toilet.  Now.., your part of this plan is to swim against the current.  Swim against the swirling stormy waters, and IF (or when) you pull yourselves out, you are more than welcome to stay in my house for the rest of your natural lives.  Granted all you little f*ckers look alike, so there may be a time or two or always that you'll find yourself scooped up again and thrust back into the bowl.  In other words, get the f*ck outta my house!!!

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...

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....