Fur Babies

As I flipped through my Facebook this afternoon, I came across a posting from Kevin Smith announcing the passing of his beloved pet, his "son", Mulder after 17 years of unconditional love and companionship.  My heart goes out to him in this time of sadness.  Not only because I'm a fan of Kevin's, but as an animal lover and a pet owner myself.  In the backs of our minds, as pet owners, we all know that we'll eventually have to bid farewell to our "fur babies", but somehow we tuck it away until it eventually comes to fruition, becoming overwhelmed with sadness, instead of preparing for it.

When I chose to adopt my boy, Monkey, I had to mentally prepare myself for that inevitable end.  I thought I could handle it, but since he came to live with me, nearly five years ago, I've come to realize that when that day comes, I'm going to be a complete wreck.  I love that cat more than I do anyone or anything else in the entire world.  I can only hope that he lives to be seventeen or eighteen years young, if not longer.

I recall as a young boy, my cousin getting himself an Irish Setter.  He named it "Sarge", which is a name he'd chosen years before and though (in my opinion) the name never suited the brownish red dog, his name was Sarge and that was that.  Sarge was "technically" my cousin's dog, but Sarge took to my uncle more.  All about the small town, my uncle could be seen driving his pick-up truck and there was Sarge, stoically riding shotgun.  That pick-up truck belonged to my uncle, but it also belonged to Sarge.  So much so, in fact, that no one could approach the truck when my uncle wasn't around.  No one including my cousin, the dog's rightful owner.

Eventually, my cousin grew older and left home, pursuing life's ambitions outside that small northern Saskatchewan town, leaving Sarge behind with my uncle.  They were virtually inseparable for his remaining years and eventually Sarge would pass away, leaving my uncle heartbroken.  The years since his passing, the subject of getting another dog has come up only to be stifled by my uncle, on the basis that he did not wish to go through the experience of losing another beloved pet.  I never fully understood that thought process until my boy came into my life.  Now I'm not sure I could ever replace him when he shuffles off this mortal coil.

My cat drives me nuts some days, from his nonsensical bawling to repeatedly leaving morsels of food scattered around the house or streams of projected vomit.  I've got an assortment of stains in my carpet that vaguely resemble the spots on a leopard's hide and deep scratches stretched across all my leather furniture and oak banisters, but truth be known, I would not trade a single annoyance for anything.  Every facet that drives me nuts, is also endearing to me.  Like I said before, I love that boy more than I do anything or anyone in my life.  Gun to my head, if I had to choose between my cat and the life of a (human) loved one, I can honestly say I don't know.  I'd probably choose my cat, as he's never deserted me, shunned me, judged me or given up on me.  The love of a pet is unconditional.  That means no matter what, they love you, where as I've found with my human counterparts, there's ALWAYS a condition.

For now, I'm going to enjoy every minute of every day of every week, month, year and (hopefully) decades of my time with that cat.  And if you're a pet owner, might I suggest you do the same.  I know that's what Kevin Smith has done with his pets and though his loss today seems insurmountable, he'll survive.  He's a strong fellow, who inspires me everyday in ways that I'm, consciously, not even fully aware of.  My heart goes out to him today.  CREDITS!

*The picture above is of Kevin Smith embracing Mulder.*
I dedicate this blog to them and to all pet owners who embrace the love of a pet.

Unjust

Yesterday afternoon I stopped off at a nearby confectionery to check some lottery tickets I had.  I tend to gather a number of them before checking for winners, rather than racing the the lotto kiosk after every draw.  I used the self-checker and found that I only had two winning tickets out of the ten or so I brought in, and those were only worth two dollars each, just enough to pay for a ticket for this Wednesday's draw which I believe may be around $7M.  While waiting in line to pay for my goods and grab a new ticket, there was a little Filipino guy behind me, muttering about who-knows-what.  His accent was thick and I really didn't give a crap anyway.  The only words that I did understand from his garbled speech was "thank you" when I ushered him to another til ahead of myself.  I was nearly at the cash register in the line that I was in, so I didn't mind if he moved ahead of me and another till.

No sooner had I handed over my two winning tickets to collect the four bucks to cover the cost of my new ticket, than I overheard that same polite fellow begin freaking out at the checkout clerk helping him out.  Apparently, he too, was cashing in a lottery ticket.  His was a scratch ticket, however, and worth (from what I gathered) $10,000.  She explained to him repeatedly that he had to cash a large sum ticket with the Lottery Commission, and that such a substantial amount of money could not be awarded from a business like this, nor would it be safe for him to carry out a large sum of money like ten grand, but he would have none of that explanation.  It seemed, as if, they more clearly she explained, the angrier and the worse his accent got.  By the time I was gathering up my goods to leave, this man was as coherent as the Tasmanian Devil and just about as riled up, too.

I don't know how to word this next part without making myself sound like a total asshole, but I'll give it a whirl.  It's not his behavior that offends me in this scenario, but the mere fact that HE won that kind of money and I'm still cashing in free tickets and two dollar paydays.  This guy is "fresh off the boat", so to say, and I've lived here all my life.  I mean, they guy is still wet behind the ears practically, and I've more than paid my dues, so-to-speak.  I've lived in this country, freezing my ass off every winter, getting blasted by intolerable heat in the summers.  I've broken bones, tore muscle, and had teeth smashed out of my head, but I get a couple of bucks from playing the lotto, while this insensitive prick from half way around the world, steps off the plane, buys a lottery ticket and wins ten grand.  Then adding insult to injury, pisses and moans about having to wait until the next day to go cash the ticket in, via the usual methods.  Somebody ought to kick his ass, on principle only.  If I were a lesser person with loose morals, I would have done it and stolen his ticket.  Except I'm more civilized than that.  Plus, I don't look like a Pereira or a de la Cruz...

Bare Ass Beach

Currently, I should be tidying my house up in preparation for an evening of friends coming for treats and to play board games, instead of typing away at yet another blog.  However, when the inspiration hits me, I find it particularly difficult to put the creative process on hold.  Besides, the words should come flowing quite easily, as the idea is so fresh in my mind.

I purchased a new board game a few weeks back and have had it open, though I never really perused the rules too closely, so I haven't the foggiest idea on how to actually play it.  The game is based on a television game show of the same name.  "The Moment of Truth" aired on FOX and was hosted by a fellow by the name of Mark L. Walberg; And no...  It's not THAT Mark Walberg famous for "Boogie Nights", "Planet of the Apes" or "Ted", but his doppelganger, by name only.   This Mark Walberg would sit across from a contestant and ask questions which the participant would have to answer truthfully.  If there was any doubt to their answer, they'd be hooked up to a lie detector.  The show lasted only three seasons, but the number of relationships that were permanently damaged by being on the show, was much higher than that.

So I'm kind of shuffling through some of the cards, reading the odd question.  Doing so shouldn't affect the outcome, should we wish to play it later.  Questions range from the mundane like "Have you ever broken something in a friend's house but neglected to admit to it?" To stuff a little more tawdry like "Have you ever gone skinny dipping in a public pool?"  The question that I stopped on was this: "Have you ever gone to a nude beach?"  I've not read through the instructions, so I don't know if the answers are supposed to be simply YES or NO, or if there's some explanation allowed to elaborate on each question.  My answer to this particular question would be YES.  Now allow me to elaborate on that point.

It was July 1st, Canada Day.  I can't recall the year, but I'm fairly certain it was about six or eight years ago.  A friend invited me to accompany her and her cousin to the beach ("beach") where we were supposed to meet up with some other work mates.  The beach turned out to be what is affectionately referred to here as "Bare Ass Beach".  It's a clothing optional beach.

It was quite a trek from the parking lot to our final resting spot near the edge of the rushing South Saskatchewan River.  Upstream from us, was a couple, a man and a woman, enjoying the sunshine and working on their tan.  The gal was laying on her chest and bikini straps lying next to her.  I admit I saw some side boob, but I never gawked like some people would.  Mostly on account that she looked like she would easily be able to whoop my ass, not to mention her muscular companion.

To the north of us, maybe about twenty-five to thirty feet away, were a gaggle of young girls.  Laughing, drinking and carrying on.  Not a worry in the world, which is expected for women of their young age.  Standing directly in front of them, was an old guy.  He was about 5' 10" tall, really heavy set with a big ol' round belly hanging down.  He was butt-freakin'-naked.  In fact, as far as I could tell, he was the ONLY naked dude on that entire stretch of beach.  Standing there at the river's edge, in water just below his knees, tugging on his manhood.  It was the most disturbing thing I'd seen up to that point in my life.  The girls on the beach, were too involved in each other's fun and laughter to notice the fellow pleasing himself.  It was truly disgusting.

So yes....  I've been to a nude beach and based on that experience alone, I've never gone back, nor will I ever.

Better Than Sex

Yep!  You read that title correctly.  The feeling may not exist every time, but when it's done right, a good hearty burp can feel better than sex anywhere on the planet.  My belch of preference is that which accompanies a nice swig of ice cold Coca-Cola.  There's nothing like it.  Sometimes, if the belch erupts immediately following a big sip, I can still feel the bubbles of carbonation tickling my throat.  I swear it's as satisfying as hearing a baby's first laugh or receiving a warm embrace.  I love it!!

Granted, maybe I'm doing something wrong, if I feel that burping is better than fornication, but I think I have the basic mechanics of it down pat.  It's not something I have an opportunity to do very often, unlike drinking carbonated beverages, but as memory serves, the investment into the sexual act, far outweighs the pay off.  I can't speak for my female counterparts, but I'd imagine they would agree.  All the snorting, grunting, sweating and what have ya, barely covers that final UGH!  Where as, I can sit down drink back a one-plus litre of Vanilla or Cherry Coke and become completely fulfilled for the mere cost of a couple of bucks.

Am I going to pay the price for this admission?  Perhaps, but truth be told, there's not a lot of dogs barking up this tree and I doubt there's going to be anyone coming a knocking at my door to try and prove me otherwise..  Granted, I've had quite a dry spell in the romance department, partially due, I'm almost certain, to my affinity for carbonated beverages, but I'm sure a shitty attitude may be a contributing factor,  However, no matter my outlook at the time, a tasty bottle of root beer isn't going to judge me based on attitude.

To all the lovely ladies reading these words, who've blessed me with the gift of coitus, once upon a time, I thank you and I assure that you've done nothing wrong.  Although, I'm sure you're looking back now with some reservation and disdain.  I enjoyed the time we spent together.  It was fun while it lasted, but to use that old phrase, "It's not you, it's me."

Inspired by T-Dub
(You know who you are...)

A Steaming Pile of Shit

I've seen a lot of movies in my lifetime.  Not all of them have been good.  Some have been complete stinkers.  "Drop Dead Fred", "Babylon A.D." and "Meet The Spartans" all come to mind.  Of all the crap that (mysteriously) gets produced every year, I've seen quite a few of them, but never have I walked out on a single movie.  Every one of them, I endured to the bitter end, choosing to critique them in their entirety.  "Hobo With A Shotgun", "Dark Shadows" and "Public Enemy" are a few more titles that fell short of what was promised audiences.

Even, in the privacy of my own home, I've chosen to continue watching terrible movies.  "Inception", "The Man With The Iron Fists" and "The Rum Diary", all shitty movies.  It was mentioned, even, that if a person got high and watched "Your Highness" that it would be funny.  I was high as a kite, when I watched that one and NO.  This is not the case, but I watched it to the end.

Tonight, I went to my bi-weekly movie with friends and the movie of (their) choice was "Into The Woods".  My initial thoughts when first seeing the preview, was no way.  I was not going to see that one.  It's not that I'm against musicals, it's just this particular film never appealed to me.  However, since it's release in December, the film has garnered numerous award nominations.  Awards numerous enough to catch my attention.  If the critics are rewarding this film with multiple accolades, then perhaps my initial opinions were unfounded.  When the decision was made the other day to see the film, I thought it an ample opportunity to see the film.

My initial gut instinct was the correct one.  I don't know what the public and the critics are smoking in order to find and believe this film to be anything other than complete drivel.  A complete waste of time.  Not all of the songs were tiresome, some actually kind of pleasant, but the number was ever so slight, totaling maybe two at most.  The rest droned on forever and ever.  Continuing to drive... No.  Hammer their point across to an audience who is probably half asleep, by this point.  Then, right when you come to the conclusion that the story is over and credits are to begin rolling, the story takes a confusing twist and continues on from there.

It was after a lengthy solo by Emily Blunt, who may or may not have cheated on her husband with Prince Charming, who was cheating on his new bride, Cinderella....  F*ck me!  It's tiring just trying to keep up with this meaningless plot point.  This was the point that I got up and left.

At the beginning of this blog entry, I commented that I've seen a lot of shitty movies in my life.  A LOT of shitty f*cking movies, both at home and in the theater and NEVER have I ever walked out of a single picture.  I left this f*cking movie.  I got up from my seat, asked the usher outside the theater when the movie was supposed to be over.  "At 9:30" she told me, "It's two and a half hours long."  I glanced down at my phone as she informed me of this fact, the time reading 20:48.  There was another forty minutes to go.  "F*ck that!" I proclaimed, as if they really gave two shits about what I thought.

When we exit any film, my companions always turn and ask me what I thought of the movie.  If I don't like, I tell them, to which one always says, "But it was better than 'Meet The Spartans', right?"  I usually agree.  Not this time.  I left without saying "boo".  I walked out, sent a text for them to read when the movie let out, and I never looked back.  This is money that I'll never see again and time wasted away from my boy.  The worst part about this movie, though, was the fact that I wasn't tired enough to go to sleep.  A restful slumber might have been this movie's only saving grace and that wasn't even in the cards, tonight.

"Into The Woods" was a steaming pile of shit.  It's undeserving of any award nominations that it's received and I hope to f*ck that it loses EVERY single award.  The producers and studio who made the movie should be ashamed of themselves and anyone recommending this film for all to see, ought to wake up with a mouthful of cat hair.  Of course, that's just MY opinion, but I've never been wrong a day in my life.

"INTO THE WOODS"
What a shit show...

Now Served with Xtra Dick

It wasn't until recently that I realized that the Disney corporation, as a whole, have been aiming a majority of it's entertainment towards girls.  Granted Sport Goofy and some of the Donald Duck shit have been oriented towards boy, most of everything else is based on Princess' and shit.

Even though it's intent, in the beginning, was educational programming for boy and girls ranging in age from preschool to early teens, programming eventually metamorphosing into television shows that appealed mainly to girls between the ages of 7 and 14 years of age.  Shows like The Mickey Mouse Club, Kids Incorporated and High School Musical are all examples of television aimed at girls, not to mention almost every movie released was about a princess of one sort or another.  Whether it's Snow White, Sleeping Beauty or Jasmine from Aladdin and Ariel from the Little Mermaid, practically everything is aimed at girls.  Somewhere along the way, in recent years, executives at Disney must have wised up to the missing male demographic and the launch of a new Disney network was launched, called "Disney XD".

In recent years, Disney's been buying up all sorts of new content, rather than creating anything of their own.  It began with the acquisition of Jim Henson's Muppets and Pixar to the most recent purchase of Marvel Entertainment and George Lucas' Star Wars, each selling for around $4 billion.  Now original content featuring the characters made famous by those studios.

Until it was mentioned in a podcast that I was listening to recently, I'd never really thought about it, before.  Disney really had been catering to the fairer sex.  Imagine all the lost revenue the corporation had missed out on prior to XD.  Couldn't have been that much lost revenue when you consider their shelling out over eight BILLION dollars for Star Wars and Marvel alone, not to mention all the other purchases in recent history.

Soon, my mind began to wander, as it sometimes does, curious about why Disney would name their new network XD?  Then it suddenly donned on me.

Ring of Fire

By nature, when it comes to food preparation for my lonely self, I tend not to get too fancy in the kitchen.  More often than not, I will prepare something quick and easy for myself to tide me over to the next meal, which might be something slightly more complicated or something from the drive-thru.  Pizza pops, for those unfamiliar, are a microwavable food snack which is available exclusively in Canada and are a cornerstone of my dietary practice.  It's a pocket of dough filled with a variety of pizza flavours.  In the beginning there were two flavours available.  One contained cheese, pizza sauce, pepperoni and bacon.  The other was called a Chili Pop, which was the same concept, only it was filled with chili.  The latter was a tasty treat, but sadly, it was discontinued shortly after it's introduction, but soon after it's demise, other pizza-themed flavours popped up, including a classic that had onions, ham, mushrooms 'n' some other shit.  I was never a fan of those flavours, nor was I too enthused about the ham & pineapple Hawaiian pizza pops.

Throughout the years since their inception, more flavours were introduced, which were favourable to my taste palet.  Triple cheese is a tantalizing favourite of mine, offering a chance at a heart attack with every delectable mouthful.  As well, I enjoy the Triple meat, that includes pepperoni, sausage and either beef or bacon.  I can't recall, exactly, but it's tasty as f**k.

Along comes this new flavour, Blazin' Nacho Cheese.  The image on the box would indicate that it's spicy hot in nature.  I'm not a fan of super hot shit, but I picked up a box of this new flavour, thinking how hot could it possibly be?  Let me tell you, my Canadian readers, anyway.  Take heed.  These motherf**kers aren't hot initially, though my pansy ass did find them fairly heated, all the same.

I heated just two of these doughy treats up Saturday afternoon.  As a precaution, I drank chocolate milk with them and I'm relieved I'd done so.  My palate is soft when it comes to anything hot and spicy.  Years ago, I burned my mouth on the pansy buffalo wings at a nearby watering hole, although I secretly believe that the cook read the order as "pansy" and decided to go ahead with spicy hot wings.  I doubt any self-respecting bar visitor is going to outright order the pansy wings, but I possess very little by way of self-respect, but instead of being weak flavoured, the heat was bold and somewhat bullying.  They knocked me on my ass, so when it came time to consume these seemingly hot pizza pops, I wasn't taking any chances.

I ate only two pizza pops, hoping for a light snack before something more substantial in the evening.  They were f*cking hot, but not nearly as bad as they would have been, had I drank a soda with them instead of the chocolate milk.  The fun never stopped there, though.  A few hours later, my stomach felt a little topsy-turvy and I was unable to follow up with a decent meal.  Shortly after that, came the gambling phase, where built up gas was straining to be released, which sometimes feels like a gamble, cutting one loose and realizing something more than just methane had evacuated from my nether regions.  99.999% it's a false alarm, but a majority of those still felt like a close call.

That thin line between between farting and sharting is a dangerous and precarious one.  Occasionally, it's a very stressful and uneasy feeling.  Squeaking out a sliver, negotiating that careful balance between noncommittal and unleashing a tremendous fury of flatulence.  Thankfully, there was no issues following my eating the hot pizza treats, except several cases of "flaming hoop", which is a hot burning sensation that follows a fart.  It's killer.  Dry, thankfully, but burns all the same.

Long story short.  Some people are cut out for this hot spicy shit.  I'm not.  I'll probably finish the box, as I literally cannot toss out anything if I don't have to.  I only have six left and they are frozen, so I can space them out enough where I won't remember how treacherous they really are.  Like KFC, which I eat once in a blue moon, as a reminder as to why I don't eat that shit.