She Whistles When She Walks

"The only thing more pathetic than having 20 kids, is watching a television show about people having 20 kids." - Chelsea Handler

News broke last week about the Duggar family, who are showcased on TLC's "19 Kids and Counting", are expecting their 20th child. Holy f*ck! I can't help but reflect back on the days when my sister and brother-in-law's faces would light up with a sigh of relief when I'd step through the door. A break from their one and only child (at the time), who god bless him, was a ball of energy that would run them ragged for hours and hours. My appearance would give them the opportunity to rest and recharge their batteries. I can't fathom the idea of 19 little monsters running around wreaking havoc on a household. Insanity would soon follow, I'm almost certain.

I realize that every child that is born is a little miracle in and of itself, and having learned the history of miscarriages early on in the Duggar's family life, I understand that each and every child could be construed as a blessing. But Jesus Christ!!! When is enough, enough? Bringing just one child into a world that is already spinning out of control, is almost debateable in it's own right, but bringing nearly two dozen into it? What the hell?

They're quoted as saying "it's God's will". But even God himself has to be scratching his head with disbelief and confusion.

At least they appear to be able to afford such a large family, with the older kids able to venture out and earn some of their own spending money, and not having to rely on mom and dad. Unlike that Octo-mom bitch, who constantly has her hand out for monetary assistance.

Still... My head shakes with disbelief that people can be so irresponsible. Citing that it's "God's will". Maybe if God was wanting to form his own professional football team, but even then, the eldest children will be of retirement age by the time the youngsters will be eligible to suit up.

Using religion as an excuse for having so many kids, is irresponsible. Especially, when you consider most religions to be full of shit anyway. How many times has some radical used the bible as an excuse for their acts of terrorism or alike? Once more, there's God (if he truly exists) up there in the Heavens, leafing through his copy of the bible wondering "Where the f*ck did I say that?!?"

Grant you this, though. The creative process for making 20 plus pregnancies is fun. And if you look at any of the pictures of the Duggar family, they all look happy, especially the Michelle, the mom. Always bright and cheery. Always whistling... Not from her mouth, but when she walks...

[Insert joke here.]

A Guilty Pleasure

Due to a recent injury, I've been seeing a physiotherapist twice a week for a couple of weeks now. Thankfully, my therapist is female, as I've never been comfortable with a dude touching me in any way, even if it is in a professional manner. This is another reason I've opted for a female doctor.

Was doesn't hurt either, is that my therapist is kind of attractive too. Not drop dead gorgeous, like you'd see on the pages of the glamour magazines, but in her own sort of plain-Jane way, she's quite ravishing, and an awesome attitude to boot. We've engaged in small talk while she works out my kinks and what not. She does nothing more than flash a smile and a glance of disbelief when I revealed my belief that country music can turn a man gay, just like the game of soccer IS gay!

The other day, she began using a device my the lower thigh area, where the quadricep joins at the knee, the place where I've experienced the much discomfort over the past couple of weeks, expressed in a sort of ripping/tearing sensation. The device she uses projects ultrasound waves into the muscle and is said to promote healing and regrowth of the damaged area. To best apply the mechanism, which is used in conjunction with a gel, I need to be seated upon the cot, while she is in a seated position. To really work the area, she needs to lean in to apply some pressure.

Today as she was doing this, I happened to look down. Normally, I look all around the room, taking in the various instructional posters and personal photographs which adorn the four walls of her tiny room. However, I glanced down and noticed that she was wearing a low cut shirt. Not only that, but I noticed I could see down her shirt. Not only that, but I noticed I could see, not just her underwear, but the ample bosom within.

Now I know. This is bad. I'm not proud of this act. It was purely innocent, but much like driving past a horrible car accident, I just couldn't look away. As I said before, she is quite attractive and unfortunately a guy such as myself, doesn't tend to do well with the ladies. I'm charming and charismatic, sure, but when I get around women... I just.... I just don't... Don't get me wrong. I'm so sexy it literally f*cking hurts, but I've never fancied myself as a ladies man, is all. Probably because I use terms like "fancied".

So no. I'm not proud and I'm not bragging. I, also, don't run from the truth, especially within the lines of this blog. I am fair game and open to revealing whatever the hell people wish to know in this forum. So it is on that note that I must confess that "I DID SEE NIPPLE!" There. I said it.

I also believe she caught me looking. I was probably gazing for far too long, the lull in the conversation, likely paused for too lengthy of time. But when my eyes finally met hers, she didn't appear angry or uncomfortable or ashamed. It was just business as usual. Which I'm glad. She's helping me out tremendously and my physical limitations are dwindling everyday and my strength is increasing everyday.

Greetings and Salutations!!

Back on October 24th, of this year, I had the misfortune of taking a nasty spill at work, and subsequently injured my left thigh region. The upper leg managed to swell up pretty bad, also resulting in excrutiating pain. It was pain like I'd never felt before, and that's saying a lot, considering how many muscle strains and tears I've endured over the years. The initial prognosis by my physician, was that it was a groin injury. Having never had one before, I had no reason to doubt that diagnosis, although with further examinations in the days to come, it was later learned that it was a quadricep strain, not a groin pull as initially believed. In hopes of allowing it to heal more quickly, I was taken off of work. Forced to stay home, lying back on my bed (for the most part), with my leg elevated. The shitty part was being virtually immobilized, but on the bright side, I was able to catch up on a lot of videotaped television programming.

I was informed by my physiotherapist that she'd spoken with my boss, who was not real pleased that I had been removed from active duty at work. He wanted me to return as soon as possible, which would've preferably been last Wednesday. I opted not, having finally rid myself a majority of the discomfort from the injury. I felt that if allowed the chance to rehabilitate at home with rest, I would less likely reaggravate the strain. Instead of returning immediately, I agreed to return to work today, November 7th.

Although I hadn't spoken with my boss since the week of the injury. He's based out of Calgary, so most times our exchanges are either via telephone, email, or those rare occasions when he comes to town. However, when I'd spoken with my physiotherapist last week, who relayed a message from the boss man, I suspected things may be a little tense this week. When I showed up for work this morning, immediately things felt a little off. He never said two words to me at first, instead shooting me uneasy glares. I don't know if he felt I was faking my injury for some time away from work or if, maybe, I was simply over-exaggerating it. Whatever the case, I felt his dissatisfaction. Then at about ten minutes past eight, he walks up to me and asks "How are your balls?"

I was speechless. Taken aback. "That seemed a little personal," I thought, but he just stood there in front of me, waiting for a response.

"What should I say?" I thought, "Shiny and sparkly? Smooth and silky?"

What the f*ck do you say to that question? I stood there before him for was seemed like an eternity, but actually it was only a few fleeting moments, before I informed him that it was a strained quadricep.

I later texted a friend about my morning greeting, to which he simply replied, "What a fag!" I never laughed so much in one day, of being virtually alone, as I did today. "How are your balls?" Ha ha..., PRICELESS!

Moving On!

All the crazy hub-bub filling the airwaves right now is the sudden dissolve of Kim Kardashian's marriage to NBA baller, Kris Humphries. "Irreconcilable differences" is the reasoning cited behind the divorce which follows just 72 days into the matrimony. Given that the union has only been 72 days in the making, makes me question if much effort was placed into reconciliation.

It's being reported that it was the busy schedule of the voluptuous Kardashian sister, that played a major part in the split. Burning the proverbial candle at both ends, she was jet-setting all over the country (and the world), appearing at several ventures. I'm not a huge advocate for celebrity crap involving anyone in the spotlight, especially if it involves the Kardashians. Frankly, I just don't give two shits. However, when their exploits are on every f*cking channel on the planet, and embossed on the covers of every periodical in the checkout line at the local grocer, it's a little difficult to escape the over-exposure.

What cued me in to the sudden split, wasn't actually any of these media venues, but it was a comment made by someone on Facebook, earlier today. They were exercising their disgust that the duo would sink a whopping $10 million dollars into a wedding, for a marriage that lasted less than one trimester, while starving children remained in the world. I don't know what one has to do with the other, but what confuses me further, is why a nobody from Facebook would give a crap about either.

I, personally, waste a lot of money on a wide variety of shit. At current, I own more DVD's and Blu-ray discs, than I will ever have time to watch, but I've never once been standing online at the video store and thought, "Hmm. I bet there's a starving little shit in Africa that could use a sandwich more than I need to watch the third season of 'Chuck'!!" Just as I'm certain that all the disloyal f*ckers who sucked $10M out of the Kardashian's and the E Network, never gave much thought either.

That addresses that. What irks me, is the ease in which people can dissolve something as beautiful as a marriage, without much effort in saving it. "In sickness and in health"; "For richer or poorer"; "For better or worse", these are all vows which are never addressed anymore. In fact, I believe this is, in part, why so many opt to write their own vows, so they don't feel obligated to keep to the former. It's a bubble-gum culture we live in. Popcorn and pizza, hot and ready at your fingertips after a few seconds in the microwave, rather than tediously watching over it as it cooks atop or in your oven. I've never had any soup that was slowly cooked over the burner on the stove, since I was a mere child. My patience can't stand that long, I need it NOW!

The same goes with people getting married. They want instant gratification. Slap on those rings. Chirp out a couple "I do's" and if you're not happy right away, then let's get a Cracker Jack divorce, so we can move on and ruin the lives of two more people.

Celebrities aren't the only one's guilty of this. They're likely the most guilty of perpetrating such practices, however, but definitely not the sole practitioners of speedy marriages. I have a cousin who was guilty of the same thing. I don't know how long she was with her beau, but the two decided they'd get married. I remember it was quite the affair. Not $10M worth, but it was a sizable event, all the same. My aunt and uncle and her two sisters, worked like motherf*ckers to get each and every detail perfect. From I remember, she was a lovely bride, decked out in a beautiful white gown. The whole day went off without a hitch and everyone involved, lived happily ever after. Well, NO, actually. The two of them, my cousin and her new husband, called 'er quits after only a couple short months. It was quite a shock to everyone in the family. What was more confusing, was why more planning hadn't gone into the aftermath of the marriage. "Irreconcilable differences" were cited, but what's more, I never got back the wonderful cow bell that I'd purchased for them for their wedding*. (*This was the first wedding that I decided to become "that guy" who bought the most absurd gift, and a cow bell that mounted to a wall, seemed like the perfect inaugural gift.)

Marriage is not to be an avenue to be trodden down lightly. I've considered it's bliss. I've seriously considered it. I even have a wedding song picked out for the occasion and a perspective-wife in which to propose to one day, if the opportunity ever presents itself again. I've thought out every prospective detail ahead of time to ensure a long and happy life. For when I get hitched, it'll be like the NWO said in the 90's..., "For Life!"

It does sadden me now, though, that Kim Kardashian marriage has come to an end. She and Kris seemed so happy in those photos on the cover of the National Inquirer. But it's not the lost between she and her former hubby, that bothers me so, but because I'm going to have to hear and read about this frivolous shit for the next six f*cking months. Move over Lindsay Lohan, there's a new bitch who needs to be the center of attention...! Seriously? I mean, who gives a shit. They tried marriage. They horribly failed at it. Now's the time to give them some space and move the f*ck on!!!

F*ck The Whales!!!

I love breasts. I am a great fan of them. Then again, I'm a guy, so that probably goes without saying. Whatever the size, it makes no difference to me. I like them all. Breast cancer, has got to be one of the most foul and evil creations ever to set foot upon this earth.

Cancer in general sucks ass, but for something so disgusting and evil to happen to something so pleasant and wonderful, is heinous at best. It's like obliterating teddy bears with mechanized steel and armory. Topping something as sweet as Peaches & Cream with vinegar and Tabasco Sauce. The two simply should never go hand-in-hand (pardon the pun).

So in addition to the many children's charities that I try to contribute to, I also try to give when I can, to various Breast Cancer charities. I say "To hell with the whales!!! Save the boobies!!!" Everyone benefits from breasts. When was the last time the whales did anything for ya? If you go whale watching, you may have a fond memory for a week or so, but if you see a nice pair of breasts....? That is forever!

As grand as the many charities are, for Breast Cancer, I'm beginning to think the promotion is getting a little over the top. I see in the flyers that come to my house, that you can now buy Breast Cancer tools. Pink hammers with ribbons emblazoned on them. (...Hee hee, pink hammers...) I even saw Pink Lemonade with the ribbons affixed to them. The think that I thought really went a little too far was the chewing gum (pictured in the bottom RH corner of the photo above). Each piece of gum had a little pink ribbon on both sides of it. I realize that it's probably only a matter of punching a few buttons into a computer to get this to happen, but Jesus Christ! When is enough enough?

As I stated before, I love breasts. I am a great fan of them. Breast cancer is amongst the greatest evils of this planet, right along with white supremacy and soccer. All of them should be abolished. I even don't mind all the pink shit. I'm a Bret Hart fan, and like the moniker he had "Real men wear pink!" However, the world is getting flooded with too many pink ribbons. It's a good think they're associated with breasts, cuz if they were associated with dick-cancer, I think they would've fallen by the wayside, long ago.

[The birds pictured above are Blue-Footed Boobies]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

The children have another day of preparation, donning their multi-colored outfits of princesses, gargoyles, twinky vampires, or superheros. My nephew, this year, is going to be one of the knights of the infamous round table, but not Sir Lancelot, because Lancelot was a douche-bag. (My sentiment, NOT my nephew's.)

Gone, however, are the opportunities for office workers and alike to wear their costumes, until next year. I believe so, anyway. It's been so long since I've worked in an atmosphere that allowed displays of Halloween folklore. There was a Subway where the owner, a fairly attractive cougar, had all of her (also attractive) female employees dress up in a menagerie of sexy-looking nurses, maid, and cops. Mmm. Sexy cop. I worked at a place a few years ago, where one of the girls dressed like a sexy cop. That image emblazoned on the inside of my brain. I may be hit with Alzheimer's one day and I may forget who all my friends and family are, but I believe I will always recall S_____ dressed as the sexy cop!

That's one of the reasons I love Halloween so much. I completely admit to that. I like the idea of dressing up in costume, but have never been real successful at it. Either that or never had the budget to do it write. But I love Halloween for the sexy garb. It's like that line from the movie "Mean Girls". Halloween, the one day a year a girl can dress like a total sl*t! I agree whole-heartedly.

God bless those young women. I suppose older women can do it too, but that's just shameful. Most times it's like seeing an animal suffering by the side of the road. You just want to put it out of it's misery. Too mean, ya think? Trust me! If you seen me in sexy garb, you'd want to put me out of my misery, too. If not for any other reason than, I've clearly lost my f*cking mind!

I love the sexy costumes. Sadly, another year has passed and thus, another opportunity to ogle the girls from afar. Not all is lost, though. Perhaps for lunch tomorrow, I may happen by a familiar Subway for a sandwich. If I'm lucky.... Some more happy memories for when I'm old and drooling in the old-folks home....

Better Than

"I recently became a member of an exclusive club." comedian Dane Cook announced to an arena full of his adoring fans, "It's the 'I dropped my phone in a toilet full of pee' club." The audience erupted in laughter at the premise, some I'm sure, also members of that same elite group. Well, today, I'm happy to announce that I did NOT drop my cell phone into a toilet bowl full of my own urine. However, considering this is a day in which I got shit on, it's only fitting that I be pissed on, as well.

My boss was in town, from his home base in Calgary. It's actually pretty great working for a company where your boss is one province away. There aren't any shenanigans taking place, but it's nice to not have someone breathing down your neck at every waking turn. I've been employed with this company for a little over six months now. When I signed my contract at the beginning of my tenure, I was promised a review at six months, with a $1 raise. I thought this was great, considering my previous job would nickel and dime you to death with measly twenty-five cent "slaps in the face" (as I called them). So when my boss-man rolled into town, I thought this was the opportunity to receive that raise.

I first received a sheet from him, on which had several words on it. Shit like "creativity" and "attendance" and other words associated with my position. I was to rate myself between 1 and 5, one being really shitty and five being absolutely perfect. I filled it out, being brutally honest where I thought I needed to be, and he did the same, adding comments on each line. Then shortly after lunch, I sat down with him to discuss what we'd written.

Apparently my being "brutally honest" paled in comparison to his read on me and my situation. He ranked me pretty f*cking low on most of the points. However, in discussing my take on them, I managed to change his mind more than once. Closer to four or five times, to be perfectly honest. He liked that I recognized where I needed to improve and adjusted the scores accordingly. After our talk, I felt relieved. It was one of the best reviews I'd ever had. Not like my former employer who'd rake you over the coals, then not offer up any guidance on how to improve. While basking in my accomplishments, I hesitated for a moment then asked about my raise, to which the boss-man responded, "I discussed it with B__ (who is the manager for western Canada), and we both agree that we're going to pass on giving it to you for now."

He saw that I was physically taken aback by this comment. "It's not that you don't deserve one," he explained, "it's just the sales are down in this branch." That's f*ckin' horse shit, I thought. Of course, the sales are down. There's ONLY two f*cking people working here. One's an idiot and the other's me, who doesn't know what the f*ck he's doing. "Maybe in the new year," he explained.

"Okay." I said, thinking that was a hell of a shot to take. I like to think, and he seemingly agreed, that although my knowledge and experience is limited in the hydraulics field, I've done rather well in the short time that I've been associated with this company. Although, getting shit on for something out of my hands, really doesn't seem fair.

So fast forward to my coming home. I had to go to the bathroom really bad. I had the first inklings that something was afoot, when I was at the grocery store. Being one who has an increasingly short span of opportunity between my body's alerting my brain to the need for bladder evacuation, I knew that my window was decreasing exponentially. Generally, not to share too much information with you, when my body "says" pee, I need to get to a bathroom quick! The same goes for the other end of the spectrum too, only I have a little longer window there because of the ability to clench my butt cheeks together. Stop the "turtling-effect", so-to-speak. But this was definitely urinary-related.

I rushed home, the best I could, obeying posted traffic speed limits all the while. Thank Christ the kiddies are out of school when I come home from work. I got into the garage and retrieved all my shit out of the trunk, and headed into the house. Times growing more and more desperate. There was now a little sidle and skip step in my walk, as I sang my ever-popular song, "Jeffy's Gotta Pee!" The lyrics are real simple. It goes like this. "Jeffy's gotta pee! Jeffy's gotta pee! Oh my god, does Jeffy gotta pee!" [repeat, second verse - same as the first!]

Now if anyone's read my previous blog, you'll know that I f*cked my leg up pretty f*cking bad the other day, after a nasty fall at work. The doctor says it's a groin pull and I'll take her word on that, but it feels more like a tearing of my quadricep. I haven't any strength in it and every step I take feels like flesh being violently torn from the bone, like watching a lioness tear into a wildebeest. So no matter how much volume I was giving the song, trying to make it down the stairs and to the bathroom was now a desperate battle, followed by removing my shorts 'n' underwear.... I'll spare you the details.

The end result was not pleasant. I sat on the seat, inspecting the aftermath. The only conclusion I could succumb to was "It figures that on a day that I'd get shit on, I'd get pissed on as well."

One proverb that I often repeat to those around me, seems eerily fitting here is "It's better to be pissed off, than pissed on." Now I can admit to being both.