Shooting Stars

Today began a lot like most days for me. I slept in, but not too long, as my cat, Monkey, was sure to wake me up to feed him. Then I was up for good. Watched a little telly and had some breakfast before shooting off to work.

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That's when things began to get a little odd. By all accounts, there was nothing strange going on at all, but for some reason, my eyes were playing tricks on me. For instance, walking down the sidewalk that ran parallel to the street I was driving on, I saw someone who was the spitting image of Ludwig Von Beethoven. Of course, I knew this was impossible, as that guy's been dead for centuries. Plus, why the hell would he be in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan of all places to be if he were to rise from the dead for only one day.

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A short while later, as I walked down the corridor to the washrooms, I believe I saw Jesus. Not some hispanic dude named Jesus (hay-zues), but the actual messiah, son-of-God guy. I'm not a religious fellow, and don't poke fun at those who are, but this guy looked just like Jesus Christ. Granted he wasn't wearing white robes or anything, choosing bargain bin denim jeans and a swanky sweat shirt, but it was definitely him. I've seen pictures, and this guy was the spitting image.

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After that, when returning from running some envelopes to the courier bin, I discovered George Peppard was in the building. "Now this is getting ridiculous," I thought to myself, knowing that A*Team star has been dead for a few decades now. On closer inspection, and no, I didn't get up close in their business, but I did recognize that "George" was actually a tall woman with a really shitty haircut. (Frankly, I've never understood why woman choose to get those brush cut hairdos. Even if they are a dyke, what's the point of not wanting to look good?)

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Now earlier in the day, I was notified that I'd had some mail in my old mail slot located just upstairs from where I was now working. This seemed a little strange, as all the mail comes through the office where I'm now working. If they knew I was receiving mail, then why the f*ck was it still going upstairs? Anyways, I eventually snuck up to that office when I had a spare moment. I retreived a pay stub from two weeks ago and a large stiff cardboard envelope. I glanced at the name on the return address and recognized the name: DIEHL.

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A few months back, if anyone's been keeping track of this albeit, questionable blog, you may recall that a friend from work's daughter, was producing a movie here in Saskatoon. I was invited to the set one day and met the lead actor on the project. Mr. John Diehl who's starred in a plethera of projects on the small and large screen. Television programs including Miami Vice and The Shield, as well as movies which include Stargate and Stripes.

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We'd exchanged pleasantries that day, which was nice. What really blew my mind, though, was his remembering me, by name, the next evening when I, once more was visiting the set. I wrote about both encounters with Mr. Diehl, in this blog back around the middle of October 2010. So fast forward to today, I receive this stiff envelope with "DO NOT BEND" warning stickers on it. I kind of guessed that it might be an autographed photo, and sparing no moments when I'd returned to my office in the Purchasing Department of my work, I carefully opened up the encasement and retreived an 8"X10" photograph of the afore mentioned Diehl.

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Written across his brow in golden ink was a short message. He commented on reading what I'd written in this very blog. He admired that I was able to write out my thoughts as I had (and have), adding that it was something he was never able to do. They were very kind words, which impresses me even now, as I re-read them. I'm deeply moved (and blown away) that this man, this actor, this... movie star, not only took the time to learn my name, but took the time to read a couple of short paragraphs that I'd written, and furthermore, taken a few moments more, in his hometown of Los Angeles, California, to jot down some kind words for me.

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I've said this before. I've met quite a few celebrities, and as cool as they were, I doubt very much that if they had a moment or two to spare, that they'd even remember anything about me. Not to sell myself short, but come on. A ruggedly-handsome fellow like myself, in a backwards jerk-water town like Saskatoon? What's there to remember? But Mr. Diehl was kind enough (and cool enough) to do just that. He's number one in my books. That's for sure.

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And this concludes my brushes with greatness on this particular day. I wonder who I'll see tomorrow. Michael Jackson? Maybe Elvis. That'd be cool...

Smokin' Walter, Fire Engine Guy

First of all. I know my views aren't going to be very popular, but that doesn't make them any less true. So that being said, Number One: Firemen are f*cked! And secondly, I pray my house never starts on fire.

I mean, God bless those goofy bastards, for laying their lives on the line to rescue those in peril from fires, and squealing kittens from trees. They're guys doing the shit that I hope I never have to do. After all, if the kitten got up the tree, the little f*cker can damn well come down the tree itself. Why saddle their owner with that unnecessary expense.

But seriously, anyone who willfully runs all willy-nilly into a raging fire, has to have a screw or two lose to begin with. Running into that situation goes all against human nature. In other words, they're inhuman, which is almost the same as insane. And ladies, you don't really want to bring home a guy who's f*cking bonkers, to meet momma.

For some reason, though, the ladies inexplicably are drawn to these bad boys. Frankly, I don't get it. Then again, I don't understand the women who are attracted to serial killers, wife beaters or Gerard Depardieu (too obscure o' reference?). Take the bloke in the photograph above. Why the f*ck is he wearing a scarf over his face? He's clearly not in a fire, so I have to assume, he's "gangsta". You can also tell, because the douche bag is wearing his helmet, slightly askew.

Now, I'm not a complete asshole. (Got many folks fooled though, don't I?) All the brave men and women who lost their lives on 9/11 did so bravely, and their memories are not lost on me, nor are they unappreciated. But in the years that have followed that fateful day, I've crossed paths with many of these fiery soldiers, and have discovered that many use the memory and the substantial losses of that day, as a sort of entitlement. I recall one such incident at a night club, where there were some off-duty firefighters on the premisis. They were pushing people around, getting all tough and shit, while proudly donning the City's Fire Shield on the breast pocket of their shirt. One fellow, in particular, shoved me aside, thus spilling my intoxicating beverage. I'm thrifty at best and don't agree with the inflated prices of alcoholic beverages at the local drinking establishments, but that dislike goes doubly when some asshole spills my drink without so much as a f*cking sorry or even a nod of apology. Instead, this guy responded to my "What the f*ck?!?" with a braggart "Whatcha gonna do? I'm a fire fighter!"

Perhaps this experience has simply jaded my attitudes towards these guys..., but I doubt it. Because, in the end, they're still all f*cked.

I'm not completely in the clear of this vocation, though. I admit that, as a child, I flirted with the fantasy of being in the fire fighting profession when I grew up, too. Except, as a little kid, I didn't want to be a fireman. Instead, I had my sights set on actually becoming a fire truck. Pretty f*cked up, huh?

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Have a nice day and remember...

ONLY YOU CAN PREVENT FOREST FIRES...

Rude Awakenings

I've stated before about how my cat, since being "fixed", ie. having his nads chopped, seems overly affectionate to my legs. My left leg to be specific.
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My leg is, thankfully, alway clad in a faux fur blanket made of polyester. It is soft to the touch and simulates animal fur quite nicely, so I do understand the confusion.., somewhat. I've often commented that despite his intelligence for problem solving, ie. getting the toy ball out of the bag without climbing in, for fear that his daddy (me) is going to scoop him up inside it. However, in other aspects, he simply has me stumped, left scratching my head at the idiocy. But he's just a (arguably) small creature and a juvenile, as well.
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He is clever enough to know that I find his amorous behavior with my limbs, quite distasteful as I've tossed him aside many times, calling him a "fag". (Sorry to the gay community, but what else do you call a guy who humps your leg?) So now, my cat, Monkey, covertly attacks my legs when I am deep asleep. As I stated before, my cat Monkey has a proficiency for problem solving.
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Most times, I am lucky enough to catch him before the "grand finale", and toss him aside, again repeating my belittlement of his sexuality. This morning, I was awoken by him violent gyrations on my left leg once more. Thankfully, I was able to catch him and toss him aside before he could finish his deed, but not without catching a glimpse of his "little pink thing", and I use that term loosely. It's an image I wish I could delete from my mind's eye. It truly is. But on a completely different note, I'm thinking that I shouldn't have saddled him with the name MONKEY, when it's clear he should've been named "Ron Jeremy".

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Have a nice day, all!

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**For anyone who doesn't know who Ron Jeremy is: (1) Where have you been for the last decade or three; and (2) Google the name.

I'll Be Brief...

Honestly speaking.... For many years, if you were to ask me to define "boxer briefs", I'd have told you it referred to the fact sheet that accompanies a professional pugilist prior to a bout. However, in the classiest of terms, this actually refers to the underwear garment, worn by men.

I, for many many years, have preferred straight boxers. Leaving "the boys" to swing freely. To and fro, back and forth, all around willy-nilly. Frankly, I enjoyed the freedom. It was all the enjoyment of walking around the house in my underwear, only out in the world, where no one knew any better.

However, I've come to the conclusion, that this isn't necessarily the right road to be venturing down, and a couple of nights ago, I purchased some boxer briefs from a large consumer conglomerate. I won't say where exactly, but.... Wal-Mart. I've always been one who appreciated "bang for a buck". (I don't know what that means exactly, but I'm a little inebriated at the moment.)

The experience, I have to say, is really different. Breath-taking, if I may. First off, I noticed that I don't have the flexibility I once had. Climbing into my truck, proved a little more challenging than usual. My legs felt like they were connected by a web, like the feet of an aquatic bird. Quack!

Secondly, the support was suprising as well. No more willy-nilly, but more cuppage. Like two peas in a pod, if you'll pardon the expression, or a nice snug pair of gloves.

I realize now, even in my current state, that sharing this little tid-bit about my little tid-bits, is almost as strange as the experience itself. But if I can't entertain you all, then what the f*ck is the point of writing any of this stuff.

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Have a nice day, folks!!!

I Got A Long Screw For $77

It's true! Earlier today, I shelled out $77 in exchange for a long screw, but before y'all get your panties in a bunch and protest, remember that actor Charlie Sheen recently shelled out $26000 (allegedly) for a weekend romp in Vegas with a menagerie of prostitutes, and everybody still loves him, regardless. Besides, it is with great misfortune that I must report that it wasn't that kind of a screw.

Nope! Instead, the screw to which I am referring is a three incher that I took into my right rear tire. I had to pay out a whopping $77 to get it repaired. $25 for the repair, and because my truck has a tire pressure monitoring system on it, another $35 bucks was shelled out for it's recalibration.

Awe... A little let down now, are we? Y'all thought you were going to get a tawdry tale of ill repute. A sneak peak at the underworld that is Jeff? Sorry to disappoint, but I do like where your minds all went. It speaks to me that many of you readers, possess the same twisted imagination and sense of humour as I do. Thank you for that.

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Now have a nice day, you freaks!!

Haircut Day!!

I love Haircut Day! Nothing else even comes close to how I feel on Haircut Day, except maybe new socks. I f*cking love the feel of new socks, but I already wrote that blog. It is a favourite amongst some of my fans...

Haircut Day, on the other hand, is f*cking stupendous. Nothing can get me down on Haircut Day. A stranger could walk up to me, look me dead in the eye, and call me a "Motherf*cker!" and it wouldn't even phase me. You know why? Because it's Haircut Day!!

On Haircut Day, I am f*cking perfect! Everybody loves me. Everybody wants to be me. Everyone wants to be my friend. Even that c*cksucker who called a "motherf*cker", wants to be my friend.

People often are jealous of me, on Haircut Day! I suspect because I am so calm, cool, and collected. I'm like Teflon. Shit just runs off me and nothing sticks. My only regret is, that Haircut Day only comes every six weeks or so. So when the clock winds down on Haircut Day, it is to my great disadvantage that everything else in life, seems to pale in comparison.

Oh. I do not deny that I can mask most of the horrendous shit that comes flying my way the other 5weeks and 6days until my next haircut. But like a sifter, some shit gets through. However, it is how I deal with the remaining shit. I can let it affect me, which can be devastating sometimes. OR, I can rise above it. Use that sifted shit as fuel. Fuel for my cleverness and yes, I'm being humble when I say this, my f*cking brilliance.

Some of my greatest accomplishments and ideas have come from sifting through the shit. I think it is, perhaps, residue left over from Haircut Day. I have recently endured an atom blast that seemingly obliterated my very being, and while most people would rather curl up into a ball and ride the shit storm through, my cockiness and shear brilliance has allowed me, once more, to prosper from the shit. I shall survive until my next Haircut Day.

Unfortunately, I got my hair cut only yesterday, so I've another 5 weeks and 5 days of shit to endure, but f*ck it! I'm a motherf*cking survivor. Nothing can kill me! I'm invinsible! Just like I am on Haircut Day.

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But you know what the best part of Haircut Day is for me? I.. AM.. ONE.. SEXY... BITCH!!! Oh it's true! It's goddamned true! Oh my brotha.... TESTIFY!!!!

Later!!

Encore! Encore!

Driving home, I noticed the car in front of me, bobbing and weaving. Meandering in and out of my lane, without any rhyme or reason.

"Uhm. Excuse me...!" I uttered from behind my steering wheel, knowing full well that the driver of this little white Nissan wasn't going to concede my wishes, whether she could hear me or not.

After a few short moments, though they felt quite lengthy in my haste, she finally moved her keester out of my way. Ceasing the moment, I blasted past her with a flash. I looked down into the cockpit of her sedan, as I blew by, and noticed her flailing her arms about, in rhythm to the music, I assumed. I also noticed her really mouthing words that I could not hear over the blasting of my own music. She appeared to really be annunciating every word out of her mouth. She really meant whatever it was she was saying.

"Oh!" I vocalized, "No wonder you wouldn't let me by. You're in the middle of a concert."