Double Deuce

When the name or term 'Double Deuce' is Googled, a number of responses come up.  First, and foremost, is the name of the bar that Patrick Swayze handed ass-kicking's out in the movie Road House.  Another bar and grill that comes up, likely because of where I'm situated in the world, is the bar I used to frequent years 'n' years ago during my drunken stupidity era, then later on, the meeting place where friends and I would consume buffalo wings or the daily special before taking in a movie on 'cheap ass Tuesdays' at the nearby cinema.  That bar no longer exists.  Not by name anyway.  Today it goes by an Irish name that I cannot recall.

The terminology, on the other hand, defines it as something completely different.  By definition, while it sounds country and/or western, what a 'double deuce' is....  Well...  On second thought.  You be  the judge.  The definition that I read online was as follows: A 'double deuce' is the act of when one person is seated on the toilet, taking a shit and a second person sits on the first persons lap and shits through the space between the first person's legs.  Now I shouldn't jump to conclusions, but, this sounds a little gay and quite a bit more daring than I'd ever care to witness.  Let's put it this way; Super Dave Osborne was an amazing stuntman in his day, but not even Super Dave would try such a daunting feat.  Not even with Genuine Saskatchewan Seal Skin Bindings.

I was visiting my mother's house this morning, helping her change the handle on her front door.  After finishing the task, I suddenly had to rush to the washroom.  On her toilet, there's an apparatus that raises the seat up about six inches.  She's on a waiting list to have a hip replacement and attached the seating device early, so as to get the hang of it before the day of her surgery comes.  Unfortunately, for everyone who visits, they also get to practice pooping as if they'd just had a hip replacement.  Thus was my experience.  After conducting my business, I returned to the kitchen where we'd been chatting.  I marveled in two things when  I sat down.  One was remembering a blog that I wanted to write involving the Zombie Apocalypse.  The second was being reminded of the illustrious 'Double Deuce'.  I quickly explained to my mother, who was not privy to the term, and regaled with the response that it gave her.  Normally, her brand of humour shies away from the vulgar, but she laughed loudly at the premise.  I don't know if she'll share the new found knowledge with anyone or if she'll be able to properly retell the story, but those fleeting moments of my mom laughing and shaking uncontrollably, were all too precious for me.

"Double Deuce" sounds like a country 'n' western term and taking a shit between your buddy's legs is pretty gay.., so maybe what I've said for years and years about country music turning people gay, may be true, after all.  I've always stated that it (country music) makes women think about men in tight-fittin' jeans and that it makes men think about men in tight-fittin' jeans.  I actually concocted a joke from that premise once, but nobody understood it.  After a few confused looks and head scratches, I aborted the premise, citing "It's not funny if I have to explain it to you..."

 Guess it was too intellectual for them, or something.

Fletcher

"Tomatoes!!"

"Gummy bears!!"

"Root beer!!"

I was in line at the Co-op grocery store, piling my goods onto the conveyor when I overheard the commentary on the wares being purchased by the lady in front of me.  I looked up to see a lone fellow at the end of the till, wearing a company uniform, with a smile stretched from ear-to-ear.  Each item that came into his grasp, he would loudly announce what it was and, if the feeling was right, would make a mild comment on that item.

I don't know what his name was.  I never saw a name tag, He could have been a David, a Michael or Duncan, for all I know, but he looked like a Fletcher, to me.  From his mannerisms, I instantly recognized that he was a person with special needs, but it was his joyous exuberance that really caught my attention.  The lady in front of me, was visibly annoyed from the attention that her purchases were attracting, but simply smiled, nodded and waved as she gathered up her bags and departed.

Next was my turn.  I was only picking up some cheaply priced soda pop.  Root beer was included in the menagerie, as was some diet cola, ginger ale and grape soda.  I don't "Fletcher" was a fan of the Ginger Ale, as he overlooked it in his dialogue, but as soon as he noticed the purple liquid, he erupted with excitement.  "Ooh!  Grape!" he shouted out with glee, "I love grape!  I'm going to have to buy some grape, today, before I go home!!"  I smiled and admitted to my peculiar craving for the sweet beverage from time-to-time, which I think he liked.

Then he noticed the four cases of canned diet root beer.  "Ah-hah!" he said, picking up the case and transferring into my cart.  "Diet is good for you.  But pop isn't good for you.  Hmm..."  The cashier agreed with that surmise.  "No pop is really good for you." she said.

I thanked him and wished him a good weekend.  He smiled and waved, thanking me, adding "Have fun at the party!!"  I bother to correct him that I was making the purchase for my own gluttony, as opposed to supplying refreshments to a festivity.

I stopped at the Customer Service Desk and told the lone occupant that "Fletcher" was really really nice.  I was in a pretty good mood when I went into the shopping center, but I was leaving with a smile stretched across my face, from ear-to-ear, that was rivaled only by the one on Fletcher's face. 

Late Night

Late Night with David Letterman.  Late Night with Conan O'Brien.  Late Night with Jimmy Fallon.

All three predecessors to the current, all sounded good.  Each talent's name existed synonymous with the Late Night moniker, but the last.., Late Night with Seth Meyers, sounds like an assault on the palate.  Whether it be David Letterman, or Conan or Jimmy,  all the names rolled off the tongue like poetry, but the name Seth Meyers spoken in conjunction with the Late Night title, sounds like the crushing sound of two 1971 Plymouth Fury's plowing into one another.

I'm sure Seth Meyers is a pleasant fellow and quite adept to helm the mantle of the Late Night ship.  He was always enjoyable manning the news desk on SNL, on those rare occasions that I would tune into that show.  I've not watched any of the new rendition of Late Night, nor did I watch any of Jimmy's shows, either, with exception to a fun clip or two shared on Facebook.  I only mention Seth Meyers now because it was on as I shut my television off, roughly ten minutes ago.  It was only a few fleeting seconds of Seth thanking a pretty brunette for coming on the show.  From what I could tell of the brief viewing, is it looks as though NBC spared every nickel possible on providing Mr. Meyers with the absolutely cheapest looking set imaginable.  The desk alone, looks like balsa wood slapped together with packing tape.  It looks so flimsy that it would not surprise me if a violent sneeze tore the entire ensemble apart.

As stated, I'm not a fan of the show.  I don't watch it, nor do I watch Jimmy's show.  In fact, I don't really watch any of the talk shows anymore.  I did try to tune into CBS and Craig Ferguson's Late Late Show, when he was the host, even though he tended to pre-tape his shows weeks in advance.  The humour was still present, but the effort left a lot to be desired.  I have been watching his replacement, James Corden.  Corden has been, as far as I can tell anyway, recording each show on a daily basis.  I've only missed one episode of the new version and thus far, the show is very charming and funny.  

James Corden was one of the ensemble cast of the movie "Into The Woods", a musical that I found to be SO completely over-the-top crappy, that it was (literally) the first movie I ever got fed up with and stormed out of in a fit of rage.  It was THAT bad.  However, since The Late Late Show with James Corden really IS so charming, I've forgiven him for making "Into The Woods".  I still hate that movie more than cancer, though.

I plan to continue watching the Late Late Show, at least until it's not fun to anymore.  As well, I miss watching Stephen Colbert on The Colbert Report, so when he replaces David Letterman later on this year, I'm sure I'll be tuning into that (then) two-hour block, every night.  

I watch a lot of television, This is true.  But, I'm a single guy.  I don't go out too often.  I don't watch sports.  My TNA Impact Wrestling is on a channel that I cannot afford to subscribe to, so I have a lot of time to waste before I shuffle off this big ol' shitty world.  May as well have a chuckle or two in the meantime.

EPILOGUE:  I really enjoyed the original version of The Late Late Show was LIVE and was hosted by the late Tom Snyder, who was infamously a newsman and radio personality before hosting the early version of the Late Late Show.  Tom would come onto the screen, just him and another seat.  He'd talk to the camera and ultimately, to all of us watching at home and speak from the heart.  Once in a while, Tom would tell a funny joke, which only the laughter of the crew could be heard howling following the punch line.  Over the years, I've kept a couple of those jokes in my hip pocket, just in case I need an ice-breaker for a new crowd of friends.  The format was simple.  As I said, it was just Tom.  His guest and the odd viewer who was encouraged to phone in with a question for the guest.

Snyder only hosted for four short years, then it was Craig Kilborn who replaced Tom, followed by Ferguson who hosted to ten years.  

Haters Gonna Hate Hate Hate

Speaking of hate, I hate the fact that I quoted Taylor Swift for the title of this blog, but don't hold that against me.  That annoying song is a part of pop culture and for argument sake, it fits the subject matter of today's blog.

I'm an avid user of Twitter.  I don't have a high number of followers.  Not many people privy to my unique stance on the world.  In fact,  I'm still yo-yoing in the vicinity of 250 followers, after four years.  I still have fun with it, though.  Trading comments, remarks and praises with my favourite celebrities.  

Once in a while, though, I'm greeted with unwelcome comments, remarks aimed to discredit or belittle me, usually on a personal level.  I generally ignore these comments, but once in a blue moon, a comment crosses before my eyes that I simply cannot leave alone.

One thing that I find most irresistible is my ability to point out the flaws, shortcomings and blatant mistakes that people make.  Spelling errors, poor grammar or general stupidity, I find impossible to not point out, or even belittle, depending on it's severity.

I have a friend on Facebook, whom I continually correct spelling and grammar mistakes.  She thinks I do it out of a need to make her feel stupid, despite my repeated assurances that I don't do it for that reason.  Instead, I do it..., simply because I have no choice.  It's as involuntary as deciding to breathe.  The fact that I point out that her poor education is due to growing up in the city of Regina, Saskatchewan, IS by choice, but that's only because Regina is such a shit-hole.  It's true.  Look it up!

Earlier today, while looking through my Twitter feed, I saw a posting from TMZ that remarked: #Breaking: ATL Hawks star, Thabo Sefolosha, in HEATED scuffle with NYPD officers...  They offer up a video, which I did not click on because, frankly, I don't give a shit.  I did, however, make a quick comment, which was meant as a humourous quip based on the fact that celebrities usually get special treatment over regular folks.  "@TMZ Do the police not know that he's a celebrity? #DifferentRulesForCelebs" is what I wrote.  Less than a minute later, I received a comment from a fellow by the Twitter handle of @prototypekicks, who began questioning my use of the word 'celebrity'.  Back and forth we exchanged comments, each response I received, the more disparaging they got.  I'm not proud of myself, but I deduced that this fellow was of limited education and the meaner he got, the meaner I got.  Unfortunately, when I get mean, I go for blood, getting as vicious as I can.  I go for the jugular, with hopes of offending the party so deeply, they'll give up and leave me alone.

I don't know who Thabo Sefolosha is.  I don't watch basketball.  I barely consider basketball as an actual sport.  Given the terrible physical shape that I'm in, I consider any activity that I can do, can't actually be considered a sport.  Even if I can't do it well, if I can still do it, it's not a sport.  For instance, I'll never make it on the PGA circuit, but I can bang the f*ck out of a golf ball, and therefore golf is not a sport.  That withstanding, the goofball, @prototypekicks, begins giving me the basketball player's stats and claiming that his lack of skill, prevents him from being a celebrity.  Even though, by definition a celebrity is: A famous or well-known person.

@prototypekicks apparently did a check on my Twitter account, as he began attacking this very blog.  Upon reciprocating and doing the same on his account, I gather that he possesses a fetish for sneakers as his photos are overrun with pictures of the gayest looking shoes I've ever seen.  There's no way in hell that any self-respecting man would be seen wearing those shoes, unless it were while performing yard work or shoveling manure.  Hashtag: Ugly as f*ck!

As Taylor Swift croons; Haters are gonna hate hate hate, and I'm certain that this isn't going to be the last Twidiot that crosses paths with me.  Christ!!!  I wish I was paid a dime for every f*ckwad that I exchange words with on Twitter OR Facebook.  I've had to stop following many of my favourite wrestling sites on FB, due to assholes blanketing me with a horrendous barrage of hatred if I say anything negative about the WWE.  

In the end, assholes are going to continue to be gaping assholes, so long as a level of anonymity accompanies their dickishness.  I could care less.  I stand behind every stupid comment I make.  I welcome any backlash that may come of it.  I'm not afraid of any of these simple-minded fools.  Chances are, I could Jedi Mind Trick most of them with the wave of my hand...  Or simply jingle my keys to distract.  I'm not saying I'm better than everyone I interact with on the internet, but DO say that I'm smarter than a majority of them.

"Water's wet.  The sky is blue.  Fact is, I'm way smarter than most of you!" - ToontownJuggalo, to the World Wide Web.

Ugh! Popcorn!!

Ugh!  Popcorn!  If I were a superhero, I have no doubt that the bane of my existence would be popcorn.  Superman has Lex Luther.  Batman has the Joker, but my arch nemesis would always be popcorn.

I wouldn't presume to say that popcorn would be my Kryptonite, as popcorn could not and would not ever kill me, but it's mere presence drives me absolutely bonkers.  It's the sound it makes.  Whether it's the throaty popping sound that emits from the kettle or the subtle squeaks it makes as people shovel it into their gullets.  Either way, it drives me as nuts as any squeak or rattle in my vehicle.

Other than my incredible power of parallel parking, another gift that I'm cursed with is incredible hearing.  I possess inalienable ability to hear that which most are incapable of hearing.  I had a hearing test impeded once by a fan that I swore was in the booth with me.  It turned out the be a fan that sat on the floor above the doctor's office.  So it's not impossible that I can hear the squeakiness of the popcorn.

In my youth, I never harboured any ill-will towards the salty snack.  While I never purchased any of the treat when attending the movies, I never hated the stuff like I do these days.  I'd even went so far as to buy the odd box of Pink Elephant popcorn, although if memory serves, Pink Elephant possesses a sort of plastic-styrofoam taste about it.  Explains why I've never even subconsciously craved Pink Elephant in decades.

Many years ago, I worked the night shift at a 24-hour video store.  One of the duties I had, when I came into work was cleaning out the popcorn machine.  I had to scoop out the remaining popcorn, which was sold for a buck, then clean out all the grease and salt, using a strong vinegar-water solution, followed by glass cleaner.  The mixing of those two smells is something that, to this day, still haunts me.  Then there was the cleaning of the kettle.  Everyday, as fresh popcorn was being popped, some batches would be forgotten or the little wing inside the kettle wouldn't be turned on and the corn was forced to just sit there, popping then ultimately burning.  There aren't many things that smell worse, within my circle of experiences, that is, than burnt popcorn.  Perhaps, it's these experiences that solidified my hatred for popcorn.  It's difficult to say for certain.

These days, I can't hardly smell corn without being revolted to some degree.  The reasoning behind that is the cat litter I use for my cat.  The litter is made from corn, which traps his "business" the best I've ever seen, masking the stringent smell that accompanies it.  One time, when I used regular kitty litter, the smell of his pee was so strong, it gave me a bloody nose as I scooped his box clean.  This has never been a factor since making the switch.  I highly recommend making the switch, if you haven't already.

Popcorn, though!  Ugh!!  Next to the annoying f*cks who insist on talking or playing with their f*cking phones, I hate popcorn.  Actually, now that I think of it, I'd place popcorn behind the f*cking losers who bring their f*cking babies to the movies, too.  But it has no place in my home.  No one is allowed to ever bring popcorn into my house.  That's just horse shit!

Beverly Hills Cop III is Racist

Several weeks ago, I promised to write a blurb about the movie Beverly Hills Cop III, which stars Eddie Murphy.  As a sequel, the movie missed the mark by a miracle mile.  An incredibly bad movie, that was most likely slapped together before there was even a real hard copy of the script secured.  It was directed by John Landis, who had teamed with Murphy on a couple previous projects, including the hit, "Coming To America".  Landis was also the genius who helmed the director's chair for classic cinema which includes the titles, "The Blues Brothers", "Trading Places" (also with Murphy) and "National Lampoon's Animal House".  However, John Landis dropped the ball on this movie, although I'm guessing it was the producer and the lack of a secured script.

When it aired on television last month, I didn't get to watch it in it's entirety, a loss that I'm actually thankful for, but what I did see of the film, was terribly racist.

Blatant racial humour, which by today's standards, would never be allowed, due to everyone's panties being bunched, is and was the norm in the 60's and 70's.  On many occasions, I shared conversations consumed with laughter and disbelief when reminiscing about the humour in Mel Brooks' classic, "Blazing Saddles".  "The new sheriff is a near...." always made us chuckle.  Humour, like that is barely expected in motion picture comedies in the 90's or, especially, the new millennium.  Not unless it's something from the mind of Quentin Tarantino...

Without getting too in depth with the storyline, Beverly Hills Cop III has Eddie Murphy's Axl Foley investigating a shooting that occurred in Detroit, where the culprits fled to SoCal, and more specifically, a Disney-esque amusement park called Wonder World, where the parks head is a beloved fellow fondly named, Uncle Dave.  There's a point in this farce where Uncle Dave is shot and presumed to be dead, Axl Foley being framed for the shooting.  Like wild-fire, news of the shooting spreads over television and radio, the description always the same.  "Wonder World founder, Uncle Dave, has been shot.  Description of his shooter is a black male."

That's as in-depth as the description gets.  A black male.  Suddenly, every uniform police officer in southern Los Angeles, is after Eddie Murphy's Axl.  Despite there being other African-Americans in the background, Eddie Murphy's the ONLY person of interest.

There's a seen where Axl ducks into a lavish Beverly Hills restaurant to use a pay phone.  The local news plays over a crowd gathered at the bar, which is a scene I've never seen occur in real life at ANY fancy restaurant I've ever attended, but I guess for the sake of this movie, they had to suspend belief.  "A black man shot Uncle Dave..." the news broadcaster says, and everyone's gaze goes from the TV set to Murphy ducked in the back of the restaurant on the telephone.

Is it racist?  Or, more specifically, is it 'racial profiling' that EVERYONE assumes Axl Foley must be the culprit who shot Uncle Dave?  There's even a point where Axl is witnessed by two police officers, accompanying Uncle Dave into the E.R., and even though they recognize that he is assisting in saving Uncle Dave's life, they still assume he's the guilty party when word comes over their radios.

The whole ordeal is disgusting.  A terrible movie and a very racist movie.

Lottery Isn't Comprised of Three Words

I was returning home from an excursion I'd taken at mid-day.  Suffice it to say, I wasn't in the best of moods, given a major inconvenience about an hour earlier, but I wasn't prepared for what happened when I stopped at a nearby gas station to pick up a lottery ticket.

I've rarely visited this location over the years, as it's situated in a very inconvenient place.  It's pumps face backward in relation to when you drive into the lot, but given that I don't buy my gasoline from any of the regular stations, opting instead to visit the Costco for it's lower prices, the odd placement of the gas pumps at the Shell station are barely an issue.  However, I only needed a lotto ticket.  I haven't any chance of winning the jackpot, on account that it's something that I want and need desperately, hence the unlikelihood that karma will allow it, but just in case, it's only slightly easier to win with a ticket in hand.

I've purchased lottery from this location before, albeit it hadn't been for more than a decade, I'm sure, but I slipped in quickly, with only this purchase on my mind.  Behind the counter was a lone female.  She was a bigger girl, both in height and girth.  I directed my inquiry to her as she sat perched atop a tall stool, with an abundant belly hanging down over her "cooch", and both hands tucked deep into the pockets of her bunny hug, sorry....  In the pockets of her hoodie.

"Could I get a 6/49 with the...." I asked, interrupted by a negative blast from the large Marge parked behind the counter, 

"N***a, please!!  We don't sell no lottery!!" she blurted out in response.

I paused for a split moment, although it felt like an eternity as her statement slowly soaked into my psyche.  For one thing, she pronounced the word 'lottery', like it was three words; "LAW-TRRR-EEE"!!  Another thing, "We don't sell no..." is a double-negative, which would conclude that they do, in fact, sell lottery.

I shook my head, then responded, "First.  That seems a little harsh.  And secondly, who the f*ck doesn't sell lottery?  Every place of convenience, sells lottery."

Still seated on her perch, hands still in her pockets, she just turned her head to look out the window.  "Yeah.  Well we don't!!"

Anyone in the Saskatoon-area who may read this, please stop supporting this location of Shell.  Normally, I could laugh this shit off, but holy f*ck, such a callous response to such an innocent query, seems inexcusable.