I Could Give A

I could give a rat's ass!!!

Actually, I couldn't a rat's ass.  I don't have access to a rat.  Nor do I even know where to access a rat.  I suppose I could visit one of the many local pet stores and acquire a rat.  I doubt they'd cost very much.  Then I could give a rat's ass.

On the second hand, though, I'd be stuck with a rat with no ass and I don't know what sort of medical problems that would produce.  I can only imagine that a rat without an ass is going to bloat up, filling more and more with rat turds, on account of not having a method of vacating it's bowels.  The poor little bugger would eventually explode, spreading rat feces all over the place.  If I kept the assless rat in a shoe box wrapped in duct tape, I suppose that'd contain the exploding rat, although that is only a theory and has yet to be proven by myself or science.  And plus, that'd be awfully selfish of me to steal away the rat's ass to give to someone else to prove I could care less about something, then stuffing the poor f*cker into a shoe box wrapped in duct tape.

When you consider how very little I care about a lot of shit, I'd be tossing out rat's asses out all the time, like a Las Vegas poker dealer.  So then I'd be faced with a plethora of assless rats.  That's a helluva problem.  I've not bought that many pairs of shoes in my lifetime, let alone have enough shoe boxes to contain all the assless rats.  One could double or triple them up in the shoe boxes, I suppose, but cannibalism runs wild in the rat kingdom.  If left in a shoe box, I'm sure one would eventually turn on the other, which is disgusting, not to mention, the cannibal rat would be adding to the compiling poop in it's system, ironically causing it to explode all the more quickly.

A "humane" alternative, would be to purchase myself a snake.  This way, once the rat's ass was issued to whomever, the remaining parts of the rat could be fed to the snake.  I'm not a fan of snakes, though.  Especially, the constrictor variety.  I see them on TV and in that Harry Potter movie, and they always look like their thinking.  I don't like any creature that appears to be smarter than myself.  Not too mention, you always hear about those f*cking snakes getting out of their cages and killing the family pet or worse.  I don't have any small children in my household, unless you include my cat, Monkey.  He's an agile little f*cker, but I don't know how he'd fair against a large constricting snake, and I don't wish to find out.

My not caring about things could run up quite an expensive tally.  Though inexpensive, dozens and dozens of rats would add up quickly, not to mention the cost of a snake and all the shit you need to encase one of those bastards.  My bank account would quickly dwindle, this much I am certain of.

Obviously I've given this subject a lot of thought.  I've also considered the idea that I don't care about a lot of shit.  I don't know if this makes me shallow or callous.  I do, however, have trouble in distinguishing whether I could or couldn't care less.  Nor do I know exactly, when to give a shit or not give a shit about something.  The latter, I suppose, has to do with one's diet.  I suppose if a person consumes a lot of roughage, then they, in theory, could give a shit about a lot more.  Personally, I'm allergic to a lot of stuff like whole wheat products, and therefore am unable to drop a deuce when it's deemed necessary to convey my dislike or lack of care on a particular subject.  I still poop, yes.  I'm not in danger of exploding myself, but I just can't do it at the drop of a hat.

This is quite a dilemma that I'm faced with.  Damned if I do.  Damned if I don't.  I have no avenues in which to confer with on this subject.  Nobody knows the trouble I face on a daily basis.  I've consulted the internet with hopes of finding a solution, but I don't even want to go into detail about the sick shit that has come up.  Suffice it to say, there's a lot of sick f*ckers in the world.

I could invest a lot more time into the discovery of  how to deal with this dilemma.  Lord knows I have the time, but....  When you get right down to it, it doesn't really concern me a lot.  I guess, I just don't give two shits about it.

A Dream Is But A Life

In the past I've had dreams that felt real and sometimes waking up from them was a real disappointment.  Not that I was really unhappy with my life, but the dream life was really really great!

Some of the dreams I'd had, were quite adventurous.  There were even some dreams where I was deeply involved in the pro wrestling world and waking up from that to face my humdrum life, was a complete let down.

My life isn't what I'd call adventurous, nor would I say it's super-fantastic, but I am quite content in the little world that exists today.  I have a nice home, a pretty sweet job, and a beautiful little boy (aka. my cat, Monkey).  That being said, I still have, on a rare occasion, those realistic dreams, so real in my mind that it takes a few moments when I awaken, to realize that it was just a dream.  Last night / this morning, was just one of those occasions.

I'd gotten to bed really really really late.  I'd been slumbering on my sofa, as I often do after a long hard day's work.  My back was bothering me all day long, so once my ass hit the couch, it didn't take very long for my eyes to close.  So roughly around 4 or 5 am, I moved myself from downstairs to my comfy bed, where I quickly resumed a restful sleep.  It was about this time that I began dreaming the real dream.

In part, I think what makes these dreams seem so real to my subconscious, is the fact that the passage of time feels like the actual passage of time.  One minute equals one minute.  Even if I'm only asleep for a couple of hours, as in the case of this morning, shutting my eyes at around 5 am and waking up again at 8 am on the nose.  The time inside my dream felt like about a day and a half, or so.

In my dream, I recall living where I live.  Driving what I drive.  Working where I work.  Everything was exactly the same, except for the fact that I was also attending school.  It wasn't a tech college or university, but it was a grade school.  In some kind of "Billy Madison*" universe, all 6 feet of me, was going to school with children.  Either that or I was teaching.  That part of my dream wasn't very clear.

The ground was snow covered, which these days isn't a surprise (late spring), and I'd left the school for the day.  I was half way home, when I realized that I'd left something back at school, so turned to go back.  The school was located right downtown, which for anyone familiar with Saskatoon, knows that there's no public schools downtown, especially one that would allow a grown adult to attend.  But the Saskatoon, in my dream was far different from the Saskatoon that is our harsh reality.  Perhaps, like the premise of my education, the city's location was different too, despite my living in my same house and driving my same vehicle.

As I neared the school, I had one more turn to make.  A right turn which I, uncharacteristically, cut too sharply, catching a snow drift piled at the street corner, causing my beautiful Honda Ridgeline to rollover onto it's side.  I experienced the rollover from a first-person perspective and like in life, it seemed to pass in slow motion.  I recall the truck tipping.  I remember the shocked looks on people's faces, standing across the street witnessing my accident.  I could hear the metal twisting and the glass breaking.  I could, and still can, feel the sharp pain running through my back as the vehicle came to rest on it's side.  Feeling the cool breeze blow into the cabin of my truck, and being warmed by the blood trickling down my face.  Every facet that could possibly exist in those few fleeting moments, I experienced in real time.

I remember hearing the sirens of the emergency vehicles and watching the flashing red lights as they drew closer and closer.  Admittedly, I vaguely recall being admitted, checked over and stitched up; and released from the hospital.  Instead of going home, I returned to the school.  Whatever I'd left was very important, but I would forget what it was I sought, once I would arrive at the school.  Forgoing whatever it was, I now needed a ride home, and received one from my only option, which was a van filled with homeless people.  F*cking strange, huh?

Instead of taking me home for some much needed bed rest, I was instead escorted to a subterranean terminal of sorts, where I bumped into friends, friends-of-friends, and my brother-in-law, Bryan, who subsequently gave me a ride, but not to my home, but instead to his house, clear across this strange thriving metropolis that did not resemble Saskatoon, my home, in the least.  I grew more and more frustrated with not being allowed to go home and it was around this time that I woke up.

During the time it took for the cobwebs to clear in my foggy mind, I seriously thought about the toll it would take on me at the expense that replacing my truck.  The truck is five years old, and as in real life, it had less than fifty thousand kilometers on the odometer at the time of the rollover.  Insurance should give me a fair price on it, but it would still pale in comparison to the selling price of a 2013 model.  I was more than relieved when I looked around and realized that I was back in my real life.

The Unicorn Guy

The Irish Rovers are a musical group, who formed in 1963 and although their members mostly hail from Ireland, they are considered a Canadian talent, who have represented our fair country at five World's Fairs.  They have many a popular song throughout the decades, including the hits "Puff The Magic Dragon" and "Wasn't That A Party".  What are their relevance to this blog, you're probably wondering?  Keep reading, as I'll be more than happy to connect the dots for you.

Quite often, while I eat my lunch at work, I keep quiet, opting to listen to everyone else's chatter.  Most times, they speak of their private lives, of which I know nothing about.  However, sometimes the subject matter is so ridiculous, that I can't help but chime in or snicker at the goofiness of it all. 

Today was just one of those silly days.  I don't know what lead up to the subject, but someone muttered about horse flies.  They joked about the small insect actually resembling a horse, but with wings.  They all chuckled at the absurdity.  Then the woman, H______ asked, "I've heard of Horse Fish, but they're not real, are they?"

"You mean, Sea Horses?" I asked.

"Yeah.  Sea Horses aren't real are they?"

"Sea Horses ARE real," I reassured, adding, "It's Sea Unicorns that are make believe."

That's when their conversation really took a sharp left.  The sole male at the table remarked, "Yeah, I'm fairly certain that Unicorns were real.  They don't exist anymore, but I'm pretty sure they did."

I couldn't believe my ears.  Did this guy, just claim that the mythical creature, the unicorn, actually lived at some point in the history of the world?

"No." said another, seated at the table, "Unicorns were never real."

"Finally," I thought to myself, "Someone with a lick of intelligence."

"I think you're wrong," he said, "The Irish Rovers sang a song, The Unicorn, so they must be real."

My jaw dropped, nearly slamming my lunch into the table.  "By that logic," I interjected, "Because the Irish Rovers sang a song about Grandma being hit by a reindeer on Christmas Eve, then Santa Clause must be real, too!"

His table (and mine) laughed at the absurd remark, while R____, aka Unicorn Guy, just smiled, realizing he'd just been bested.  Then adding insult to injury, he laid another ridiculous claim.  "Now dinosaurs, I doubt ever existed.  I can't prove that they didn't, but no scientist can convince me that they did."

Wh-wh-wh-whaaat?!?

"They say that they can test their bones and prove that they existed 65,000 years ago..."

"Sixty-five MILLION..." someone said, correcting him.

"Okay.  Sixty-five million years ago.  How can they say it was sixty-five million years ago, if no one was alive then..?"

So B___, the voice of reason at the table, explained the process of carbon testing.  She is very soft-spoken and I couldn't make out most of what she'd said, if anything at all, but of the bits and pieces I did hear, it sounded logical, but R_____, Unicorn Guy, wouldn't have any of it.  "Nope.  The Earth wasn't here 65,000,000 years ago.  I don't believe it for one second."

"Like I said, I can't prove that dinosaurs never existed, just as scientists can't prove to me that they did, but one thing is for sure.  I know that unicorns were real." the man deposed.

In the end, he wouldn't budge on his beliefs.  Dinosaurs are make believe and unicorns were f*cking real, in his universe.  Also the world isn't millions of years old, but only came into existence when mankind arrived.

I can't believe that there are people like this in the world.  Frickin' moronic people like this in the world.  R____ is a likable enough fella, but wow...

In the end, I can't really fault the guy for sticking by his beliefs.  As goofy as they are, they're no worse than the fact that millions of people in the world believe in an invisible man who lives in the clouds, who sees our every move and choices and helps guide us all by listening to your wishful prayers... 

Give me a break!!!

Strange Happenings

I, in no way, propose myself to be any sort of paranormal expert.  In fact, although it's known by some that I watch a lot of that shit on television and the internet, it pretty much baffles the shit outta me, when it's not causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.  That withstanding, I have had some questionable experiences in my short but distinguished life.

The first experience occurred many years ago, following the my sister's marriage to her first husband.  They'd just purchased a new home in a newer part of town and were going to have some painting done to it.  This coincided with their plans to leave on their honeymoon, so they had me house sit for them to allow for the painter to come and go, as well as watch their cat, Norman.

The first night of my week long stay, I chose to sleep in the master bedroom, upstairs rather than the uncomfortable single bed in the guest room.  Just as Norman (the cat) and I laid our heads down, we were startled by a series of claps sounding from the level below.  The house was set up in such a way that there was only the master bedroom and en-suite upstairs, along with a small sitting room where the television set was, which overlooked the front room and dining room below.  The cat and I, literally looked at one another, surprised and bewildered at the noise we were hearing and both leaped out of bed to investigate what was the matter.  The clapping continued as I flicked on all the light switches, but ceased once I made it to the railing to look over.  I searched out the house, while Norman watched from above, but nothing and no one was there.  I flicked off the lights and returned to bed, opting then to pull the sheets over my head.

The next day, I was kicked by an unseen force, while speaking to the painter.  It wasn't hard or malicious, but firm enough to let me know that something was there.  That freaked me out, again, especially since it was in the middle of the day.  Up to that point, I believed that supernatural shit only occurred during the night.  The worse of it, though, occurred at the end of the week.

Upon the return home of my sister and (then) brother-in-law, I immediately reported the weird shit that occurred in their absence.  They, of course, laughed and mocked me.  That night, while sleeping in the uncomfortable guest quarters, I met with the most violent of the attacks.  I was sleeping with my face to the wall, when I was awoken violently with the mattress flipping upwards and pinning me against the wall for a few seconds.  I woke up and thought for sure that it was my brother-in-law, a notorious prankster, pulling a joke on me.  As soon as the mattress fell back into place, I quickly flipped over to discover an empty, dimly lit room with the door still closed, like I'd left it earlier.  Given the layout of the room, there's no f*cking way that he, my idiot brother-in-law, could've successfully maneuvered out of the room and quietly shut the door.

Nothing ever happened to me after that, and I'd spent a lot of time in that house in the following years.  However, when I moved to the basement suite of a house on Laurentian Drive, that was another story.

I worked nights and slept throughout the day, but several times a day, I'd be awoken by the heavy walking of someone upstairs.  The living room window looked out the front into the driveway, so I could always see when someone was home upstairs.  More times than not, there was no one, yet the walking would continue. It was always the same, too.  From their living room, directly above mine, down the hall, back into the kitchen, then returning to the living room.  This went on for hours and hours.  Finally one day, I asked my idiot landlord who the person was upstairs doing all the walking.  He informed me that no one was staying with them, but added, "Maybe it's the man in the brown suit."  This information put me off some, especially when he elaborated on the explanation.  Apparently his fiancee had purchased the house a couple of years previous to my moving in and one night was startled when she awoke to a tall older man in a brown suit, looking down on her as she slept.

The entity in the brown suit never ventured into the basement, where I was, thank Christ, but continued to walk that same course, intermittently over the rest of my stay on the premises.  That is, until my landlords asked me to vacate the dwelling.  Their increasing family dictated that they needed extra room and so it was logical that I vacate in order for them to do so.  I don't know if it was coincidental, but they day I was all packed up and ready to leave, the cupboard doors in the kitchen upstairs, simultaneously began to slam repeatedly for a few hours, I'm guessing in protest of my being asked to leave.  Denny, my landlord was not only an idiot, but a complete douche bag to boot, so instead of being pleasant on asking me to depart, he was abrupt and rude about it.  I can only imagine he was the same in his life upstairs too.

Again I was paranormal-free, until I moved into the house I bought in 2008.  It's located in a newer part of town, too, so naturally I never thought of anything being out of the ordinary.  Not until I began seeing things out of the corner of my eye.  I live in a 4-level split, which means I can see into the kitchen from the living room downstairs.  Sometimes, when I'd be watching TV, I'd notice a small furry-like creature cross my peripheral.  I didn't own a cat, yet, so I always found this to be odd.  I didn't know (not until recently) that animals can sometimes inhabit locations after their death.  I wondered if there was a black long-haired cat that once lived in my home.  This would certainly explain some of the strange behavior from my cat when I did finally get one.  To this day, he gets freaked out and will come running to my side.  Shit, he just did it now!

Lately, though, there's been some other strange shit occurring.  Things that a spectral kitty, no matter how supernatural it may be, could ever achieve.  I found my wallet in my fridge once.  At Christmas, a gift for my nephew went missing.  It's quite sizable, so I was quite dumbfounded, especially when I found it recently, down in my basement, tucked tightly behind some shelving.  I nearly threw my back out extracting it from it's resting place, so there's no way I could've absent mindedly stuck it back there.  But the majorly f*cked up occurrence, happened last night, early this morning.

With my Blackberry in hand, I placed it on the counter, as I was returning a jug of milk to my refrigerator.  When I turned back, I literally saw my phone lift up about six inches off the counter, move out and drop to the floor, where it proceeded to bounce and in some awkward JFK-magic bullet fashion, illogically bounced about four feet into my cat's water dish.

WTF?!?!?

I'm not convinced that my house is haunted by anything.  At least I'm in denial of any such possibility, but how the f*ck am I supposed to wrap my head around that stupid kind o' shit?!?  Please, someone explain this to me.  How??

My cat is still running around in a panic, this morning.  Poor little bugger.  I'm going to go keep him company and protect him from whatever the f*ck...

Intolerance

There was a time when just the sound of Tracy Morgan's voice made me want to punch a kitten.  I could barely sit through a commercial, let alone any of his SNL skits, without wanting to lash out in an effort to stop the offensive onslaught that was attacking my mental status.  Movies were definitely avoided, when possible. Watching "The Longest Yard" and "Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back" had me at my wit's end, and being such a huge Kevin Smith fan, it I managed to white-knuckle it through "Cop Out".  Thankfully, throughout the last few years of Tracy Morgan exposure in mainstream media, I've avoided the urge to punch a kitten.  It's not been easy, but I've survived the anguish and turmoil.  

It's not been until lately, maybe the last year or so, where my mental anguish has subsided.  When Tracy Morgan's offensive tones are overheard by my overly sensitive ears, I no longer fantasize about inflicting violent tendencies on juvenile felines.  Through the magic that is the Howard Stern Show on Sirius Satellite Radio, the many on-air interviews that Howard has done with Tracy Morgan over the years, I've learned to, not only accept Tracy Morgan's voice, but even become a fan of sorts.  I understand the man, a little more, and appreciate his unique brand of comedy.  I'd even surmise that when I learn that he's going to be on the program that day, I sit up in my seat a little more, and look forward to the experience.

Drop To Your Knees

Suffering from back pain, I found myself in the fortunate situation a few years ago, where I was able to replace my decrepit old spring-filled mattress with one made of foam rubber.  While it is not like those advertised on late night television, boasting space age memory foam that conforms to your natural rolls and folds, it has proven to me in the years since it's purchase that a supreme level of sleep and comfort can be achieved.

Costing a fraction of what the Tempur-pedic brand is priced, I've not suffered from severe back pain since that first night that I bedded down.  It used to be, that I would literally roll out of bed, barely able to move.  My back hurt so much from years of abuse and a multitude of terrible car accidents, that I was in pain for most of my waking day.  Since I bought the foam mattress, nearly no pain at all, in my hours of operation.  Other than that from physical over-exertion, that is.

At the time of my purchase, I also experimented with a small foam cushion that was supposedly conformed to the natural curvature between the base of my head and my shoulders, but I never had much luck with that one.  Since that time, due to what some may refer to as "thriftiness", but who are we kidding?  I'm a cheap bastard.  If I can't justify the price for something, then no matter how beneficial it might be, I'm not going to shell out a single dime for it.  That being said, I've never invested in any of the memory foam pillows until today (03/04/2013).  I bought a couple from Costco that were reasonably priced plus a hefty instant rebate at the cash register, so I'll be trying those out very soon.

On my way from the sales floor to the check out line, though, I passed these bathroom mats.  It wasn't the price that caught my eye, but the description.  For the life of me, I can't understand why one might require memory foam for a bathroom mat.  The technology seems like it'd be wasted for something so frivolous as a bath mat.  You step out of the tub, onto the mat, stand there for maybe a minute while you towel off your goodies, then step off.  Why would someone require memory foam for that?  Then it donned on me.  Like a flash bulb went off in my head, a series of still pictures whisked past my mind's eye, all depicting myself in several situations, all of which involved myself and the bathroom floor.

I don't drink anymore and haven't for well over a year.  I don't have a problem, but consuming alcohol is something that I don't do very well, anymore.  On occasions of the past though, I'd ready my bathroom for my arrival home.  I have bad knees and can't kneel on hard surfaces., so a "just-in-case" sort of scenario was required.  This act simply involved my placing a freshly fluffed and folded towel at the foot of the toilet, on the off-chance that there might be vomiting involved on my return home.  Surely, this, of all things, would be one of the benefits of owning a memory foam bathroom mat.

However, it wasn't very often that I'd find myself at the helm of the porcelain bus, upchucking a technicolor yawn of the snacks previously consumed.  More times, than not, I'd simply pass out on the floor.  In the morning, I'd find myself just about anywhere.  One time it was in the middle of the living room with my pants down around my ankles, which would've been fine IF it had been my house.

Perhaps instead of a soft memory foam bath mat, the company should think about a memory foam backing for carpet.  That way you could pass out anywhere in your house and at least have a well rested and relaxing sleep.  It'd probably help stop the room from spinning too.  Or slow it down, at least.

Tarantino Stole My Dream

I am not an actor.  Not by any means.  I aspired to be one, as a young child, like many kids do.  However, when my parents told me I would never be good enough, I had to accept that reality.  After all, they were grown ups and I was just a little kid.  I figured, they knew what they were talking about.

After so many years, this reality must have crept into my subconscious, as this morning I had the strangest of dreams.  Not to say that I never have strange dreams, because over the years, I have had some doozies.  For instance, as a child I do recall being scooped up and eaten by King Kong.  Odd for a herbivore to devour a human being, especially one as piddly as I was.  I remember not being chewed, but popped like a pill and the journey down to his stomach was lengthy enough that I could look all around me and process the scene of which I was passing, rather quickly, by.  Bananas.  Tons and tons of bananas, lined his throat.  Pretty f*ckin' strange, huh?

Hence the reality that the dream I awoke to this morning being of equal strangeness.  Although I wasn't consumed by an over-sized movie monster, it was bizarre all the same.  I dreamed that I was on the set of a Quentin Tarantino movie.  I was standing in a line with actor Eli Roth and a red-headed actress whom I did not recognize.  We each had a special weapon in our possession, used more for slicing than cutting.  I recall that my fellow companions regaled at the uniqueness of my blade.  We were going over our lines for the scene that we were about to film.  Standing back, the two actors ahead of me were trading off lines, back and forth, like the true professionals that they were.  Although I was in the very same scene, I realized that I didn't know a single line.  "I'm not an actor!" I thought to myself, "How did I get into this situation?"  Never the less, I joined in the rehearsal, adlibbing my lines as they progressed, them pausing to look at me, momentarily, before giving me words of encouragement.  Apparently, I was there to be comedic affect.  I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

There was already talk that this was going to be an Oscar-worthy motion picture, and though I knew I'd never be nominated for such a prestigious award, it was refreshing to know that I was going to be a part of something so grand.  Quentin finally appeared before us, just as a row of train cars rolled up.  It was gleaming in the morning sun.  Jet black with a thick bright gold stripe running lengthwise from it's nose all the way to it's fourth and rear car.

Quentin engaged in some idle chit-chat with my co-stars before turning to me.  "Ah, Jeff.  Glad you made it." he said, as though we were kindred spirits separated by time, "Follow me, I have a special job for you to do."  He lifted a velvet rope that I hadn't seen up to this point.  I ducked under it and followed the famed director off towards the train.

"The train that you see here, contains all of the recording devices that we're using for this movie." he explained to me, brandishing his arm in such a grandioso manner. "However, we haven't anyone who is able to operate this train."  Quentin paused for a moment, then turned to look at me.  "That's where you come in.  I need you to run this train for me.  Ensure that it's onset at all times.  Can you do this for me, Jeff?  This is a very important job.  I need you to do this."

Preposterous as it sounds, I heard these words escape my lips, "But Quentin!  I'm an actor!"

I know, right?  Growing up my parents never believed I'd ever be good enough for such a profession, so why would I think I was now?  Never the less, I said it.  Spoken words of desperation to one of Hollywood's finest movie generals.  Even though minutes before, I was questioning why I was on board for a motion picture of this caliber, I was now confident enough that I could pull off the role for which I was hired to play.

Placing his arm on my shoulders, Quentin was a little hesitant to inform me that he and the producers had decided to cut my part from the movie.  I would still be paid the agreed upon salary that was declared in my contract, however they still needed me to work for my paycheck.  Given my "history" of driving a forklift, it was a given that I'd be qualified to operate this specialized train.  I failed to see then, and even now in my conscious state, what the hell one has to do with the other, but I hung my head in defeat and soon found myself sadly looking down from the cockpit of the train, at the world that could've been.