Mystery Meat

After returning home from work last Thursday, the day in which I also made a visit to the hospital to receive the unpleasant gastroscopy procedure to remove the piece of food from my throat, I started the process of tossing out the food responsible for the blockage.

The night before, I was going to prepare a tender pork loin, but decided that was too involved and opted for an easy way out instead, which was to eat hot dogs instead.  Simple in it's preparation, as all you need to do is boil water and toss them in.  Boom!  Supper in under five minutes.  Boom!  Blocked throat passage ten minutes following that.  So whilst I was seated in the examining room at the hospital, I took an assessment of the shit I eat and much of it, really isn't that good for me.  Lots of quick and easy meals, opposed to healthy stuff that would not only improve my health, but would be less likely to be caught in my narrowed throat passage, and ultimately less likely to kill me some time down the road.

The top of that list was the hot dogs.  I really don't like the taste of them that much.  Like I said, it's something quick and easy.  If quick and easy is what I require, then opening a can of ravioli is pretty f*ckin' simple.  I don't even need a can opener for that endeavour.  In the process of gathering up all the hot dogs, my cat, MONKEY (pictured above - isn't he adorable?) came roaming around my feet.  Rubbing up against me all loving and such, I thought I'd see if he'd play with one of the hot dogs that I'd prepared the night before and tossed one to the middle of the kitchen floor.

He ran up to it, took a couple of sniffs, then backed off.  It was as if he'd sensed something evil about the thin frankfurter.  I thought it weird and kicked it toward him and once more, he backed away from it, never turning his back on it.  Thinking it odd, I picked it up and tore the ends off it.  I thought if it were smaller, resembling a mouse a little more, he might play with it or take a nibble, but again, he cowered in fear, ears pinned back and eyes concentrating on the food.  I quickly scooped it up and tossed it in the garbage and he returned to normal.

I thought it curious, the response he'd made towards the beef wiener.  Given all the things that I find him nibbling on around the house.  Paper, cardboard, shoe laces, pieces of the carpet torn from his kitty tower (also pictured above) and numerous miscellaneous pieces of refuse that gets tracked in by shoes from the yard, yet he wouldn't entertain the idea of putting any part of the hot dog in his mouth.  He's a freakin' cat, for crying out loud.  He's an animal who licks his own ass after taking a shit, but he wouldn't taste the hot dog.

Makes you wonder what the f*ck "they" put into those f*cking things.

Pardon My French

Earlier this week, Iranian law enforcement [*there's an oxymoron, if I ever heard it] shut down numerous toy stores guilty of selling Barbie Dolls.  As part of a decade's long crackdown, police have been closing toy shops all over Iran for selling the popular doll, as well as anything that remotely resembles Western culture in the middle-eastern country.

I realize that Iran is a very backward thinking country, but is this necessarily the best use of police resources?  Granted, not much can be expected from a country who's President looks like a psychotic Pee Wee Herman.  But I'm fairly certain police efforts could be used for the protection of it's peoples, from real criminals...  (I laugh to myself, knowing that this is a country that scrutinizes it's people more so than actually protect them.  There's probably more corruption in the "legal" side of Iran, than the criminal element.

To close down "mom & pop" stores for selling f*cking dolls, though.  Honest people trying to make a living in a backwards country by selling toys to children.  Giving them a reason to smile and laugh, before they grow old enough to realize that their lives suck because they live in Iran.  But maybe this is why the police feel it necessary to close down these toy outlets.  Perhaps, by allowing children to use their imaginations, they may invertedly realize a better life for Iranians everywhere and eventually becoming the age of majority, will rise up against those who oppose them, and revolt.  Make a change for the betterment of Iran.  Like those who rose up against the government in Egypt last year.

This has been a decade-long fight, though.  So that can't be it.  Maybe it's the carefree attitude that Barbie represents.  Ideally beautiful and carefree.  Independence is not something that the men of Iran wish upon their women-folk.  Burka's and veils are what their women wear.  It's hard to look sexy and beautiful when you're wearing a f*ckin' bed sheet over your f*ckin' head.  A field of black ghosts, is what they look like.  It's stupid.  Some of those middle eastern women, look quite ravishing.  It's sad that they're forced to comply to a defunct practice that should have perished decades ago.

This stupidity reminds me of a practice a little closer to home, which perhaps is not as detrimental as the laws in Iran, but on the retardation meter, it ranks a close second.  That is the French language in the Canadian province of Quebec.  Businesses there cannot display a sign that reads in English only.  It is mandatory that the signage, as well as the products sold within that establishment, need to display the French language prominently.  This is why many companies seldom venture into Quebec as it costs so much to comply to Quebec's idiotic rules and regulations.

The last I checked, Canada was a part of the British Commonwealth.  Quebec is in Canada, so shove that French language up your asses.  Is French even really a language?  No!  Think about it.  When you're around a baby, people feel compelled to make weird and odd sounds to the baby.  "A zsa zsa boo boo pee pee poo poo."  THAT, to me, sounds like French.  Words of jibberish that are nonsensical and mean nothing.  Therefore, it is logical to surmise that French, also, is a nonsensical language and means nothing.  For the most part, Quebecois' are assholes, which is likely the motive behind the push to mandate the French "language" as the primary speech.

Quebec!  Get your heads outta your asses and get with the program.  Iran!  Get your heads outta your asses and realize that the Western civilization is where it is.  The sooner you get on the band wagon and comply, the sooner you can move forward into the future, as a viable culture.  You need to realize that we, the West, put the "civil" in civilization and civility.  Treat your people with dignity, then maybe you won't find yourselves ousted one day.  Or worse....

The Death Of Me

We are less than three weeks into the new year, and I can already predict that if I'm going to die, it will likely be this year.  A morbid thought, to be sure, but given the turmoil I've experienced over the preceding few weeks, I can only guess that as time passes me by, this year, things can either get better.  Or something will happen and I'll simply cease to exist anymore.  I'm not a religious man by any means, but I pray that the latter won't happen.

From the moment I slipped on the ice on Boxing Day, smashing my elbow on the hard frozen ground in the process, I've been met with shit storm after shit storm.  

"But Jeff," you say, "Boxing Day was in 2011.  How can this attribute to your bad luck in oh-twelve?"  Let me tell you friends.

The stitches that were placed in my elbow to repair the split, had pierced one of my veins, unbeknownst to me, and my doctor when she removed my stitches earlier THIS year.  This resulted in a sudden evacuation of blood from my arm.  And not just a drop or two, but a light drizzle, which resulted in the small examining room resembling something like a scene from CSI.

That eventually healed, roughly a week or so after the fact, but anytime I bump my elbow, the pain I experience is unbelievable.  I have a fairly high tolerance for pain.  I experience much discomfort most of the time, but choose not to elaborate on it, as there are always those worse off.  I learned this valuable lesson from a dear friend who unfortunately passed back in 2006.  The pain when I bump my arm, though, is quite substantial.  I never realized how clumsy I am, as I have in the past few weeks.

There's been a few setbacks at work.  Some by customers.  Some by employers.  All complete bullshit.  Customers being unrealistic, in some cases, and taking out their frustrations on us.  Like it's our fault (me and my co-worker - there's only two of us in the entire shop), that they're idiots.  My boss, not the dude from the Winnipeg location who clearly hates me, but MY boss, has been calling and talking to my co-worker, questioning him about me and implying that I'm not pulling my weight.  I've got some concerns about his inquiries.  They're completely unsubstantiated and misguided, but he's not known for being real "logical", so I have to question whether my future with the company is in jeopardy.  Someone (from the Toronto office) once told me that "You have to REALLY screw up to get fired from this company.  As long as you don't steal or snort coke off your desk, you should be fine."  At the time, I thought this was a no-brainer.  The company has nothing I'd ever want to steal, if I were a steal-er, and there was absolutely no chance of ever snorting coke off my desk.  For one, it's a waste of money.  And (B), the bubbles would tickle my nose.  I don't even like laughing and having it drip out of my nasal cavity.

My bosses theories are bullshit.  Personally, I think it's a personal vendetta created by a deep-seated jealousy.  I think he's jealous because I have really cool hair.  Not to mention that I have a LOT more of it, too, than he does.  I could be mistaken, of course, but probably not.  It's happened before.  It's simply one of the unfortunate curses of being such a sexy bitch.  

I've also been plagued with nose bleeds the last couple of weeks, the fluidity of them (pardon the pun), increasing this week.  I had one Wednesday afternoon, while speaking on the phone with a customer.  I found it difficult to juggle the phone, write down her information and hold a tissue up to my nose, while my cohort spoke candidly on the phone about the freezing cold weather we'd been experiencing this week.

I choked on some food Wednesday night.  Something that occurs far too frequently for me.  In the past ten years I've probably had it happen more times than I can count, but have sought medical assistance in their removal about ten times now, the last four experiences being in the last couple of years.  The only method that has proven itself successful, is by having a gastroscopy.  This is a VERY unpleasant procedure which involves getting your throat frozen then a camera, roughly the diameter of a #2 pencil pushed down your throat.  Only as it's going down your throat, it feels more like the size of a Buick Roadmaster.  It's very unpleasant and no amount of freezing can mask that feeling.

I experienced two more nose bleeds.  The first as I was hunched over my toilet Wednesday night, trying desperately to dislodge the culprit on my own.  The water in the toilet quickly turning from crystal clear to a scene from Jaws.  The second as I sat in the examining room at the hospital, before going in for my gastroscopy procedure.

The silver lining this week was, getting my truck back from the body shop.  Unfortunately, I've had a couple of issues in the days since.  One was a missing piece of trim, but that was remedied quickly, but there are a couple other aesthetics that have been bothering me, though, that I'm going to have to address next week.  Grrr, but I really DO love my truck.  Love love LOVE it!

Icing on the cake, was tonight.  Although minor, it's just one more aspect contributing to a compilation of shit.  I finally cleaned a spot in my basement for a shelving unit my mother had purchased for me for my birthday back in November.  I realize that we are now nearly at the "two months later" point, but I'm nothing if not a procrastinator.  The assembly was rather elementary.  Open the package.  Put on feet.  Attach poles then a shelf.  Repeat.  Done!  I fought with the last shelf a little, but finally got it together.  I had one before, and regaled in the simplicity of it's assembly, but this one was, inexplicably, a little more tough, and the end result makes it about two inches taller than the other "exact same one".  I looked down and saw droplets of blood.  I immediately reached for my nose, expecting another nose bleed, but quickly noticed the blood was dripping from my hand.  "How the f*ck did I do that?"

Wednesday night, while struggling to dislodge the morsel of food from my throat, fighting off a violent nose bleed.  The handle on my toilet broke into two pieces.  I own a beautiful home, but I'm not all that handy around the house.  I changed the float a few weeks back and f*cked that up.  The handle looks like an easy fix, but so did the float, so I shudder to see what happens tomorrow when I attempt that job.  F*ckin' house'll probably burn down, given my luck this year.

What does the future hold?  Like I said, I'm not a religious person, but I pray I don't die.  If I win the lottery like I've been hoping...?  Then I'm most likely doomed.  

Happy New Year!

The Other F-Word

When I come across something that is obviously retarded, I feel compelled to add my two cents in, regardless of whether or not people want to know my opinion or not.  Just a few moments ago, I read some entertainment news announcing that the American Broadcasting Company (ABC) has been asked to not air an upcoming episode of the popular series Modern Family, in which a toddler appears to utter the word "f*ck".  According to ABC officials, what the infant says in reality, is the word "fudge".  My question is: When did the tasty treat, become an offensive curse word?

Granted, people have been substituting "fudge" for "f*ck" for many years.  It is one of my favourite lines from the classic Bob Clark film, "A Christmas Story", in which little Ralphy, in an attempt to assist his father in the changing of a flat tire, accidently dumps the hubcap filled with the lug nuts, into the snow.  Ralphy, follows the incident with "Ooooh fuuuudge!"  The narrator quickly caps the statement with "Only I didn't say 'fudge'."  Classic line.  However, the word still means a chocolaty treat, not the act of fornication.  I don't ever recall hearing any self respecting male, talk dirty to his girl by whispering intently in her ear, "Get ready, baby, cuz I'm gonna fudge the shit outta you."  It's just not sexy-talk.  Not that "f*cking the shit outta someone" is such a turn on either....

It's an innocent form of terminology.  A simple split-second comment that will spark a moment or two of laughter, before moving on to, what will likely be a life lesson.  People just have to f*cking relax.  If someone's child is going to be scarred so terribly by a child whispering "fudge", then people, you're kid is already in a heap of trouble.  Furthermore, chances are, if kids are watching this program, they're not going to understand a lot of the jokes anyway.  I used to watch the program, but never found the show that funny anyway.  I only watched it because I thought Julie Bowen was hot.  Sofia Vergara, was okay, but that accent drives me nuts.

Just relax, folks.  If you protest the airing of the episode, guess what?  There's two hundred other channels you can flick over to.  I'm sure there's a Hannah Montana airing somewhere.  There always is.  You have a choice, is what I'm suggesting.  It's not like when I was a kid, growing up on the farm with only three channels to choose from, and one of those being french.  Who the f*ck speaks french?  Is that even a language anymore?

The use of the F-word, reminds me of a conversation I had with my friend once.  I asked him, what if A___ (his son) said the F-word.  What would he (my friend) do?  He told me, that he'd sit down with his boy and explain to him that certain words aren't meant to be used by little boys.  I followed up with my question with another, "What if he used the F-word in the proper context?"  My friend paused for a moment, then gave me the same answer as before.

Agreed.  Kids shouldn't be using the F-word.  I use it all the time.  Perhaps more than most, but it's such a useful word, with so many uses.  Joy, anger, protest..., you name it.  It illustrates pretty much every mood a human being can experience.  Although I wouldn't want to hear my little nephew look up at me with those innocent eyes and say, "Get the f*ck downstairs and play cars with me, Uncle!"  Although I'd have to commend him (in secret) for using the word in proper context.

A Craptacular Day

I think it ironic that so many thought Friday the 13th to be unlucky last week.  Especially when you consider how f*cked up today has been.  For yours truly, anyway.

Nothing too out of the ordinary in the beginning.  Saskatoon is finally experiencing the deep frrrreeezing c-cold that we usually get this time of year.  A far cry from the unseasonable temperatures last week and the weeks preceding it.  I can't recall the exact number, but the temperature this morning, when I got up was around -35 degrees Celsius, which is roughly -31F, but really when you get down that low, whether you understand metric or standard temperatures, what it boils down to is, it's really f*cking cold.  That was the temperature before the wind chill, which according to the radio was about -49C.

I've experienced worse, so I'm not one to complain too much about the weather.  Especially hailing from Saskatchewan where the temperature guage can fluctuate like a motherf*cker!  I remember one New Years Day, when the mid-day temperature reached a balmy plus two degrees Celsius (35F) and by 5pm that same day the mercury dipped to -35C.  Brrr.

I awoke at the usual time, this morning.  Too late to have breakfast or anything, but early enough to make it in to work in the nick of time.  I sat up in bed, rubbed the sleep from my eyes and fantasized about phoning in sick.  That would be a douche bag move and wouldn't be fair to the other half of the employee at work.  (There's only two of us.)

Everything at work was just fine.  Another run-of-the-mill days.  The usual ups and downs.  Phone calls from customers demanding this and that, and one particular animated manager from our Winnipeg office, which my co-worker nipped in the bud quickly.  I tackled some of the assemblies I've been addressing the past couple of days and continued to do so until lunch time.  That's when the fit hit the shan.

We got in a shipment from South Carolina, which was damaged.  The box had a hole in it and instead of the five items we were supposed to get, one was lost through the gaping hole in the box.  A $300-plus piece of merchandise lost, somewhere between Easley, SC and Saskatoon, SK.  F*ck!

So I got the privilege of getting on the phone with the "customer service" of the courier company, (who shall remain nameless, but rest assured, it's the one that gives it to ya in the brown, if you know what I mean - double entendre intended).  The U.S. branch was f*cking useless, so I turned to the Canadian side, which was much more hospitable, but the situation wasn't improved upon by very much.  F*ck f*ck!

So while waiting for a call back from those "kind" folks, I fielded another call while my co-worker was busy getting his ass chewed out by some douche-bag-asshole from one of the companies that we unfortunately have to service.  While doing so, I felt a drip from my nose.  I thought, for a brief second, "Shit.  My nose is running."  I soon discovered that it was not mucus running from my nose.  I now had a nose bleed, while speaking on the phone with my customer.  I tried to get the co-workers attention, but he was staring into space, still getting yelled at about some situation that was out of our control anyway.  (Sometimes I think assholes just like to yell to make themselves feel better about being inadequate.)

So now here I am.  Phone in one hand, tissue in the other, and struggling to find a way to use my pen to take notes.  Thankfully, there was a lull in the conversation long enough for me to twist up the bloodied tissue and anchor it into my right nostril.  I now had a freed up hand to take notes, although I looked like Ricky in the episode of Trailer Park Boys when he had the model truck glued to one hand and a rag glued to his nose.  (F*ck me, that was a funny episode.)

Eventually the day calmed down.  The dozen or so fires put out.  My co-worker left work to get ready for church tonight.  His Ukrainian heritage seems to celebrate a f*ck-of-a-lot of Christmas'.  This is the third one, by my count.  I thought it was a made up holiday, but when I pressed him to admit that it was made up, he got huffy and ignored me.  Three Christmas'....  

Soon after he left, I received another phone call.  This time it was from the body shop where my truck's been since last Friday.  I was informed that my truck was done and I could pick it up.  I was so happy.  The Honda Civic that I had was nice, but I love love LOVE my truck and I couldn't get to the body shop quick enough.  I got my baby back.  The silver-lining to an otherwise craptacular day.

I came home.  I played with my cat for a little bit.  Watched the Chelsea Lately that I'd taped the night before. (Yes.  I still tape shit on a VCR.  I get teased about that shit all the time, but so f*cking what.)  Then when it came time to make supper, I flaked out and decided to have hot dogs and onion rings, instead of the tasty pork loin I'd originally planned on having...  I should've stuck with my original plan.

Throughout much of my adult life, I've had troubles with my throat.  It seems narrow in comparison to other people's.  My neck doesn't appear any smaller than normal.  In fact, I would venture to say that it's quite a thick neck.  Wearing collared shirts, for me, is tough as I am unable to find a lot of shirts that will button up at the top, because of how thick my neck is.  The inner workings, however are another story.  While normal people might have a "wide mouth mason" of a throat, mine could be compared more like a "bottle neck".  Wide, wide, wide, then collapses into a narrow channel.  While it is advised that people should chew their food at least 30x before swallowing, I have to chew my food far far more.  Sometimes, however, things still get lodged in my throat.  This has happened, like I said, a number of times.  Usually so bad that I need to visit a hospital to have it dislodged.  This is never a fun ordeal, as you can imagine.

Once it occurred in a restaurant with my friend Dan, who had to follow me into the men's room when I fled the table in a panic.  He gave me the Heimlich Maneuver, which was a little funny as, if someone had walked into the washroom at that particular time, it might have appeared that he was raping me in the ass.  Another similar event occurred at a friends house, when I got a piece of (albeit tasty) pork lodged in my throat.  My friend was letting his car warm up (in the cool winter night), but in the meantime I was leaning over the trunk of his car, continuing to attempt to remove the rogue object on my own.  Garry, attempting to help, began slapping me on the back.  I never saw the technique he was using, but according to his wife, he was getting some hip action in there and once more, it appeared that I was getting "it" in the dumper.

To dislodge the morsels, doctors have taken to using a scope of some sort.  The device is long and thin, with a camera on the end.  In reality, it is only about a 1/4" thick, but when they're ramming that f*cker down your throat, it feels more like a garden hose.  I cannot stand anything going down my throat in such a violent nature.  Despite there being freezing used, it hurts like a motherf*cker!!!  Like someone shoving a splintery wooden handle from a pitch fork, down your throat.  I've gained a lot of respect for women, because of this terrible experience.  This terrible experience also solidifies the fact that I could never be gay.  That and my allergy to nuts.

Long story short.., too late!  I chose the hot dogs and onion rings over the pork loin, which was a stupid stupid mistake.  I managed to eat a couple of hot dogs and about a half dozen onion rings before I felt that ever familiar feeling.  The inability to swallow.  Like a "literal" frog in my throat, I now go into survivor mode, escaping once more to the bathroom, in an attempt to dislodge the culprit.  The natural tendency is to continue to swallow, hoping that it'll pass through.  This works for most people, but I'm not most people.  I have to be f*cking unique, and when I continue to swallow, this just lodges it in tighter and tighter.  Then to add insult to injury, as I'm leaning over the toilet, I see droplets of blood dripping into the bowl.  Soon my nose is covered in crimson and it's draining into the jaded pool.  "Can this day get any f*cking worse?"  Seconds later, the toilet's flush handle breaks into two pieces...  The handle in my hand, the other half inside the bowl.  I hear a light 'tink' as it sinks to the bottom.   F*ck f*ck f*ckity f*ck!!

It's been a couple of hours since the small piece of hot dog got lodged in my throat.  I've tried every trick I know to try and bring it up, but to no avail.  If it doesn't come loose soon, I may have to make a trip to the hospital.  Although I don't know what they can do for me there, this late in the evening.  I may have to tough it out until morning, which then f*cks the whole day away, leaving my co-worker overworked and over-stressed.  If I could just get a good burp, I know I could dislodge this f*cker.  Unfortunately, when this occurs, I'm unable to swallow anything.  Including my own saliva, which seems to accumulate faster and more abundantly when I'm choking.  What a shitty f*cked up life I lead.  Everything looks rosy on the outside, but inside...  Things are uber-f*cked!

A friend from years past celebrated his birthday today.  I don't know how old he is, nor do I care.  But I sure hope his day was a lot more enjoyable than mine was.  I just want to go to bed, but unfortunately, if I lay my head back, there's a good chance I could die, like John Merrick.  Except I'd leave a much handsomer corpse, cuz I am a sexy bitch!!!

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...