Safety First

It's kind of funny.  In the age of "political correctness" and "safety consciousness" how lackadaisical life once was.  I have old television series on DVD and watched an episode in which parents had their small child laying free in the backseat of the car.  No child seat, no anything.  Not even a loose-fitting seat belt strung loosely around the toddlers waist.  In the event of a head-on collision, this kid was a potential missile.  I even recall as a small child, being allowed to lay across the back window of my parents old Chevy coupe.  Given the wrong incident, I probably could've taken a head off.  Or broken a neck at the very least.

Then people became aware.  Aware of potential dangers.  Even over compensating in some instances.  Even recently, it's been mandated that children who'd graduated from the child seat in mommy and daddy's car, now must return.  The safety harness that was fit for them to use yesterday, doesn't work as well today.  Those poor little bastards.  I'm glad I survived the treacherous terrain that was my childhood, so I never had to endure that torture and deprecation.  Seat belts work.  Maybe not for everyone, but that's just life's way of "thinning out the herd".  I, myself, am unable to drive if I can't wear a seat belt.  I recall using my moms car in high school and the seat belt was f*cked.  You had to either sit on the latch, to make it appear to onlookers that you were wearing a belt, and therefore avoid getting an unwanted seat belt ticket from police; or you had to extend it further and click it into the elusive and hard to reach, middle seat belt buckle.

It's funny watching American TV, though, in regards to seat belt use.  Generally, no one wears it until they about to either, collide with an object or another racing vehicle OR about to plummet over a cliff.  Like the seat belt is going to help in defying gravity long enough to escape danger and injury.

Getting back to the lackadaisical attitude.  What sparked my thoughts on this subject was something so innocent as picking my dad up from work.  

My dad had many a job as I grew up.  He was a handy fellow to have around, but before winding up as a heavy duty mechanic at one of the illustrious potash mines in our province, as a young man he held many positions.  One that reminded me tonight was at a local machining company.  I don't know what they do now, but the company today is far far larger than the small shop where my dad once was employed.  As I said, I can't recall what he did there, but because he was a mechanic for most of his life, I'd imagine he was some sort of mechanical wizard there too.  

At the time we were a one car family.  My mom stayed home with the kids, while my dad worked the day away in the city.  Come the end of his shift, my mom would get us in the car and we'd go to pick my dad up from work.  Upon our arrival, I would go into the establishment.  Now remember, I was a small child then.  I don't think I was even in school yet, so I was quite young.  But I would go into the shop, people there knew me, even though I couldn't remember them.  But that didn't matter.  I wanted to see my dad, and often times I'd find him.  Somewhere in the shop, covered in grease from head-to-toe, and I'd stand nearby and watch him work until the quitting time whistle sang it's song. 

That shit would never fly, these days.  A small child, allowed to roam through a busy machine shop, complete with whirring and grinding machines.  Large quantities of loose steel and grease and other chemicals wafting through the air.  Fork lifts and hand carts and cranes all moving throughout.  A thousand and one potential life-ending scenarios for anyone, nevertheless a four year old boy.  That shit would never fly today.

A few years ago, I worked for a farm/industrial retail company, and if you forgot to wear your steel toed boots to work, they'd send your ass home to get them.  There was NO EXCEPTIONS to that rule, and rightfully so.  I remember one night dropping a heavy electric motor on my foot, and it bent the toe cap enough to cut into a couple of my toes.  I never needed medical attention, but I might have sharted a little.  That was a scary moment.  After that, I managed to drop a number of shit on my toes, even managing to break a toe once or twice in the process.  Today, though, in the job I have now.  Safety isn't so much of a concern.

I shouldn't say it's NOT a concern, but the rules are a f*ck of a lot more relaxed.  My old job at the retail place, you couldn't use the fork lift until a thorough inspection was done on it.  Where I am now, the seat belt doesn't work.  The horn doesn't work and there's no back up beacon.  But so f*cking what.  There's only two of us working in the whole building.  Ninety-nine percent of the time, if I'm in the warehouse, my co-worker is in the front office, and that's the way I like it.  (I like to sing really really loud and if it doesn't annoy me, it WOULD annoy him.)

I don't even have to wear steel toed boots, either.  Thank Christ for that.  I f*cking hate steel toed boots, and given the fact that the composite materials have vacated the heavy weight of the former boots, I still hate wearing them.  My middle name is "Danger", and that's how I likes to live my life.  Always running the risk of dropping some kind of shit on my foot.

Besides.  Chicks dig scars.  Maybe not on one's feet, but chicks dig scars!

Let It Snow, Let It Snow

Finally, it is NOW beginning to look a lot like Christmas, here in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada.  Unfortunately, it already being the New Year, 2012, Christmas isn't for another twelve months.

In normal years, the first snowfall comes around Halloween or soon thereafter, but this year the weather has been freakishly warm.  A number of record-breaking warm days have come and gone, and now it's snowy.  Finally.  As much as I enjoyed the unseasonable warmth, I missed the snow.  Everything appears to be so clean and virginal during that first snowfall.  It's definitely a winter wonderland.

On the other hand, given the amount of snow that has fallen, comes the responsibility of shoveling all that white powder off of my driveway.  I f*cking hate it.  Last year I purchased an electric shovel, which loosely translated is a shitty undersized electric snowthrower.  A perfect machine for someone with very little real estate to clear, but not very effective for someone with an expansive driveway like I have.

Now I have the misfortune of going out this afternoon/evening and clear away my driveway.  So in a couple of hours, when you're reading this note, you can sit back in the warmth of your home, and bask in the glory, knowing that I'll be outside fighting off a coronary attack.  I frickin' hate shoveling snow.

I do like the first snowfall though.  Watching the flakes float down out of the sky.  It was especially nice last year when I came home from work to find my cat, Monkey, in a panic.  It was his first winter and he had a look of panic on his little face.  I swear it was the look of fear, believing the world was coming to an end.  Armageddon...

Misunderstood

Most people associate Friday the 13th with either bad luck or Jason Voorhees.  Jason Voorhees, of course, being the vicious mass murderer of fornicating teens for decades.  He even went so far as to venture into outer space to kill again, after awakening from a frozen state in the 25th century.  Old habits die hard, I guess.

As for the lore of bad luck, I don't know what to say about that.  Mostly, I think it's just a figment of one's imagination.  For years and years, I've had nothing but bad luck.  Could it be blamed on the 13th day of  the month which just so happens to fall on a Friday?  No.  My luck sucks pretty much all the time.  Some view such luck as "Murphy's Law".  "I don't know who Murphy is and where he gets off making up stupid laws..." is what my co-worker from the Toronto office wrote in an email to me today.  I don't know if it is so much a law as it is a constant occurrence.., like the "law" of gravity.  Not really an enforceable guideline, but something that just is.  I replied to her note, telling her to thank her lucky stars, as I have my own "law", which simply states: No matter how improbable or unlikely something is to happen, it will!

Much like Jason Voorhees of the Crystal Lake Voorhees', I think Friday the 13th has a bad rap.  They're both misunderstood entities.  Jason's case is a simple one, which I will address in a short while.  First, however, I want to address the date itself.  Shed some light on the day that so many are fearful of, even though, much like the Wall Street Protest which began back in September, most of those participating, aren't really sure of why they're participating.  Further proving my point that fearing Friday the 13th is just plain silly.

There is an actual "phobia" of Friday the 13th.  It is called "friggatriskaidekaphobia".  I've tried to sound the word out like the kids to on Sesame Street, but in all honesty, I can't frigga-say it.  Rest assured, it's frigga-stupid.  Just attempting to say the word makes me sound like a big retard or Middle Eastern.  But as foolish as that is, the theories behind the fear are even dumber.

NUMEROLOGY:  Is a major culprit.  Anyone who follows this shit is a crackpot to begin with.  Like numbers frickin' mean anything.  I've never put much stock in numbers, unless it's in my bank account or numbers on a wall.  If it isn't the amount of money in my wallet or an address on the wall, I don't need to worry about it.  As for these nut-jobs, they base everything on the number twelve.  Twelve months in a year.  Twelve hours on a clock.  Which is stupid, as there's 24-hours in a day.  They also say that Jesus had 12 apostles.  Numerologists also believe that 13 is an odd number -- DUH!  And those most superstitious believe that because there were 13 people at the Last Supper, that anytime there's 13 diners, one of those thirteen will die soon after.  That's friggin' stupid.  I'm sure Jesus broke bread with these dudes a number of times before that fateful day.  I wouldn't necessarily say it was because Jesus had his twelve apostles with him at supper that led to his demise.  He was too forgiving of a man, which would make him naive and having  poor choice in friends.   I've been f*cked over before.  Lots of times, of course it never lead to my being nailed to a f*cking cross, but I'm still young.

All stupid superstitions.  They should all be overlooked.  There's nothing unlucky about Friday.  Friday is an awesome day.  For those of us lucky to have jobs that don't require weekend work, Friday is the end of an otherwise shitty week.  Because, lets face it.  Unless you work for yourself or have a career you absolutely love, you're just a mindless drone punching a time clock.  A common question posed in my office is "Is it Friday yet?"  And it is usually asked first at about 8:10am Monday morning.

Although, history has proved Friday to be pretty f*cked for some, but I think it was all coincidental.  Like the Templar Grand Master and several of his Templar knights were arrested on Friday the 13th in the year 1307, by King Phillip of France.  Most were tortured and killed.., so yeah, that could be construed as bad, I suppose.  Friday the 13th, 2004 saw Hurricane Charley, a Category 4 hurricane, slam into southeastern Florida.  Charley was the strongest hurricane to that date since Hurricane Andrew twelve years before.  Hmm...., twelve...  I guess twelve wasn't so lucky for Floridians on that day.

Renowned rapper, Tupac Shakur, was pronounced dead on Friday the 13th, which sucks for him.  In my opinion, though, I doubt that motherf*cker isn't dead.  Because aside from Elvis, how can one dead dude keep puttin' out CD's for so many years after his so-called "death".  Again.  A blog subject for another day, though.

Jesus Christ.  The man.  The myth.  The legend, was crucified on a Friday.  It's not known if it was the thirteenth day of the month, but it is a shitty way to start the weekend.  I don't recommend it.

Friday the 13th is fine.  I've always had pretty good luck on Friday the 13th.  It's not a day I'd choose to go camping.  Especially with a bunch of sexy scantily-clad college girls with nothing more than getting drunk, high and sexed up on their minds.  Saturday the 14th, I'm there, but Friday I think I'd stay home.  Just to be on the safe side.  Not that Jason Voorhees is one to be feared.  Well he is, but I understand the man.  I know what ails him.  We're a lot alike, except for the fact that he kills a lot of people with a machete and me, I'm just so sexy it hurts.

Jason Voorhees was a kid that got bullied and picked on.  That sounds familiar.  The only difference is I managed to survive the constant picking and teasing, whereas Jason was drowned in the dark waters of Crystal Lake.  Another trait that we both do share, is migraine headaches.  I get them bad some days.  Sometimes my head hurts so much, the slightest of sounds triggers an unbelievable surge through my head that makes me want to cry.  Jason...  He gets chronic migraines and as a result, he tries to remain in the forest where there is very little noise.  Just leaves rustling in the breeze and the odd chirp of a chickadee.  Now imagine, if you will, your head hurts, the pulse booms in your inner ear, like a kid on a drum.  It's all you can do to relax, then you hear the laughter of college coeds in the near distance.  "Oh f*ck!" you think to yourself, which hurts even though your thoughts are silent.  "Somebody's going to have to pay!"

I enjoy the naked female body as much as the next guy, but when a serious migraine has set on, where even the sound of your own breath hurts your head, the thought of nookie and nudity goes out the window.  I'm sure in those moments of clarity in the aftermath, when Jason is down by the lake cleaning his killing utensils, he may feel a little remorse.  "Hmm.  That hot blonde with the big tits was cute.  Sure too bad I had to hack her up into thirteen pieces, but she just wouldn't shut up."

A good guideline in life is: It's better to be safe, than sorry.  It's better to wear a life jacket in a boat, just in case you sink.  It's better to wear your seat belt, because f*ckers be drivin' crazy out there.  And if camping day falls on a Friday the 13th, maybe just stay home with the doors all locked and hiding under the covers... You know...  Just in case!

Inspector Number 69

From this day forth, pornography will be changed.  Made safer for it's participants, with hopes of reducing disease and unwanted pregnancies.  It was while I was listening to the news on Howard Stern 100 on Sirius radio today, that I learned of the bi-law passed in Los Angeles, California, where it is now mandatory for porn's male participants to wear prophylactics on their...  You know...  Wieners.

Advocates for both the positives and negatives of this practice.  Some argue that it's should be the choice of the actors, not a mandatory state law, forcing them to wear them.  I don't know why it's such a big deal.  I doubt that wearing a rubber affects their acting performance.  There's very little acting involved in that medium anyway.  Terrible acting.  Terrible.  It's like watching Canadian TV, it's so f*cking bad!  Besides, the only acting taking place is by the female performers, anyway.  I doubt that every performance they do in every scene, is really all that genuine.  For the most part, I think the male "actors", are just plain f*cking pigs.

I'm no angel.  I admit that I've seen a pornographic film or two... dozen... ish...  I prefer the films with a story, because (bless their hearts) they're trying.  Nonetheless, nearly all the men in these movies act like f*ckin' scumbags.  Some, associated with bigger studios do wear protection, but there is a lot, A LOT, who choose not to wear condoms, which personally makes me cringe.  Thinking all through the deed, about that poor girl and what may result after the fact.  Disease, infection and pregnancy..., life altering changes are always a possibility.  I view them as being victimized, I do.  Believe it or not, I do breathe a little easier, when a condoms are worn.  It protects the girls from detriment and a way for the viewer to avoid making seeing the disgusting one-eyed wonder weasel.

A man's dick is an ugly thing.  All tubular, veiny and gross.  Yech!!  Frankly, I don't know how homosexuals can to that shit.  To further stress the point, I don't know why there aren't more lesbian in the world because of how gross the male appendage is.  Procreation, I suppose...  I think the addition of the mandatory condom, is a plus.  It should make viewing the product much more enjoyable...

However, I question how the Los Angeles authorities are going to enforce this new law.  In a city with such a high crime rate already, are L.A. citizens going to breathe a little easier knowing the police are cracking down on porn sets, rather than out protecting and serving the public?  I doubt it.  I would imagine most citizens who are dodging stray bullets and alike, don't really give two shits if Kitty or Bambi are getting shtooped in the pooper with an unprotected tally-whacker.  Especially when they're crouching behind a sofa-bed, trying to avoid getting shot in yet another drive-by.

I don't think it's going to be a very enforceable law.  Unless the City of Los Angeles takes to hiring inspectors.  City officials who must remain on set of any pornographic film being produced in the greater Los Angeles area.  An officer of the municipality who must ensure that proper safe sex is occurring during every facet of every scene.  Given the amount of productions done everyday in L.A., that will definitely be a full time job.  That being said, how and where do I apply for this job?

Home Field Advantage

I never watched the game yesterday, that pitted off the Pittsburgh Steelers against the Denver Broncos.   I have, however, heard more than my fair share of the aftermath.  The surprise win of the Broncos over the Steelers.  I'm a bit of a Steelers fan, myself, but hardly have enough of myself invested in following the team, enough to be so shaken up by their defeat.

People on television and the radio have been commenting on the loss as well as comments made by Tim Tebow following the game.  Although I know he's really religious, I thought it was sad that he thanked Jesus, his lord and savior, before the efforts of his fellow team mates.  I never watched the game, but I'm fairly certain that it wasn't Jesus out there guarding his ass from being ground in the turf by the Steelers' defensive tackle.  Not that I believe had He been out there, that he'd have made much of an impact on those grid iron gladiators.

So, as I stated, I heard much of anything else on the radio this afternoon, but the announcers disbelief in the upset, adding how many question the "theory" that God is backing the Denver Broncos.  The radio announcer even went so far as to invite phone calls and tweets on the subject, urging everyone to share their thoughts.

Now I, personally, have never subscribed to such nonsense as God, Jesus and religion, really.  I've read some of the stories and whatnot while being counselled through some troubled times a few years back.  The stories were enlightening, but that's all they were.  Just stories, as far as I'm concerned.  However, for the sake of this blog, I will venture out and make like I believe.  At least for the next ten minutes or so.

People cannot believe that of all the teams in the NFL, that God would choose the Denver Broncos over any of the other teams.  What about the New Orleans Saints?  I think He may have helped them out a couple years back when he gave them the SuperBowl.  What about the San Diego Padres?  Well...  That's BASEBALL!!!!  And I'm pretty sure he'd be all up in Anaheim, anyway.

If God were to choose a football team to back, it only makes sense that it'd be the Denver Broncos.  Denver, Colorado after all, is The Mile-High City, and is arguably one of the highest points in the continental U.S.A.  Therefore, with the city elevated so high in the sky, wouldn't that make it closer to Heaven and therefore offer "home field advantage"?

Perhaps the Bronco's aren't The Lord's favorite team, but they play just down the road from the Big Guy's house.  Within walking distance, so to speak.  Then with Tim Tebow coming up through the ranks and being so gracious and thankful to God for his skills and talents, it's hard to not like the guy.  So of course God would help him out.  Why wouldn't he?  People go to church every Sunday and pray for help and guidance. Why wouldn't God help guide someone to the SuperBowl?  If Tebow and the Broncos win, it's likely to put asses in the seats at church the following Sunday...  It'd be win/win for the Big Guy.

Right or wrong.  It makes no difference if Tim Tebow believe that God is guiding his efforts.  As long as he plays with purity in his heart and the strength of a good team beside him, whether the gain the victory this weekend against Tom Brady and the Patriots or not, he should be satisfied..., EVERYONE should be satisfied with a memorable season for the Broncos.  Amen to that!

Mutilated Out Of Contempt

I realize that I seem to be dwelling on the fact that my arm is f*cked.  However, if you were in my shoes, I'm fairly certain you, too, would be out of sorts about it.  I apologize for the graphic nature of this photograph and the inset picture, but failing to elaborate on the atrocity that is currently my disfigured elbow, I find that an aptly placed photograph can speak volumes, as opposed to what words fail to do.

As stated yesterday, my physician viewed the repair done by the out-of-town doctor, to be less than below par.  She stated that more time should've been invested in stitching the laceration up.  I would have to agree with that synopsis.  While there was only one doctor on hand at the time of my visit, there was also next to no one in the hospital.  I'm sure a few minutes more, couldn't have hurt.  But I recall the small town doc, showing much disdain and didn't seem very stoked to be working the holiday.  On the other hand, she was the one who decided as a young girl that if she studied hard, she could one day become a doctor and flee the backwards life in South Africa.  Mind you, being stuck in the middle of a "one-horse town", probably wasn't what she was hoping for either.  So in a moment of rebellion, she falsely thought me to be one of the local rubes and stitched my up like she was wearing boxing gloves.

Fine.  I get that.  I don't like small towns either.  But I clearly stated that I was from the city.  That statement alone, should've bumped me up to premium care.  Instead I get marked for life, needing to explain to onlookers for the rest of my days, why my arm looks like it was chewed by a f*cking rabid badger.

I am not happy.  2012, thus far, is proving itself to be pretty f*cked up.  Happy New Year, all!!!

Boo Boo

The original intention for today's blog was to tell tales of spirits, specters and shadows caught in the corner of my eye, but that needs to be placed upon the proverbial "back burner" for now, whilst I instead, direct my attentions, once again, toward the topsy-turviness that is 2012.

It seems from the outset of Christmas 2011, my luck has been..., well..., kinda f*cked.  I mentioned how I'd slipped on the ice at my uncles house on Boxing Day, resulting in splitting my left elbow open and requiring stitches from the small hospital located in his small town.  Stitches that couldn't have been put in any worse, if I'd have done it myself, while blindfolded.  Some have speculated in the days since my discovery of this that I was "over-reacting", but I got confirmation from my physician this morning, that the stitch job was, indeed, a sloppy one at best.  She (my doctor) was also shocked that they neglected to X-ray me, despite my lack of immobility.  I inquired about the cause of the intense pain I experience when I bump or even touch the tender spot, in which she speculated that there may be a chip or a barb created from the tumble.

My doctor efficiently removed the stitches from the hack job mending and then proceeded to give me my monthly injection.  Without going into any sort of detail, suffice it to say that yours truly was born with a condition in which a certain chemical is not produced in my body, which prompts the need for me to visit my physician on a month-by-month basis, to receive an injection of a controlled substance.  Today was my regular visit, and the stitch removal was an "added bonus".  She'd just stuck me in the left buttock when I heard her say, "Oh wow, Jeff.  You're arm is bleeding." 

I wasn't just bleeding from my left arm, where the stitches had been just moments before, but the blood was pouring out, like if you turned a faucet slightly open.  A good steady trickle, it was.  I got blood on the chair. On the floor.  On my shoe.., my nearly new sneaker.  And later on I noticed that I even got a few droplets on the back of my jeans.

Without hesitation, my doctor leaped to the counter in the small examining room to grab some tissue and antiseptic, but in doing so, left me standing there with my britches slung down under my butt cheek.  Next was equal to a comedic routine from an old vaudevillian show.  My doctor fighting to contain the bleeding in my arm, my struggling to hold onto the bandages while trying to pull my pants up using nothing more than free-will.  Eventually, we managed to collect our faculties and she held the bandages while I pulled my pants up with my opposite hand.

Another physician came in to assess the new situation and together we came to the conclusion that the original doctor who stitched me up in that small town hospital located in my uncle's small town, must've pierced a vein when stitching up my elbow and when the stitches were removed, the bleeding started all over again.  FYI:  It's a good thing that young doctor in Tisdale, SK is an attractive young woman, because she sucks shit as a doctor!!!  

Now, here I sit, giant tensor bandage wrapped firmly around my arm, preventing me from bending it.  Wrapped solidly enough to compactly compress the new bandage applied to my arm, while loose enough to continue blood flow to my fingertips.  The theory is that the bandage will help the wound congeal and clot and tomorrow sometime I get to remove said bandage and hopefully (I say with hands clasped and looking up to the imaginary man in the sky) I won't resume bleeding when I do so.  If I do, I'm essentially f*cked.  I can't drive AND hold tissue upon tissue to my arm.

THAT is my 2012, thus far.  A real roller coaster of cluster-f*cks!  I'll keep you posted.  And I will write the haunting tale soon.